Heroes and Thieves
by Malcontent Ash
Summary: His eyes shone in comparison to the small, dark room.  They were beautiful; they always had been, but now their crystal sharpness which glimmered once with life and passion, was obscured by a distant haze.  -RussiaXAmerica FF
1. Chapter 1

Russia:

"Alfred." …Nothing. "Mr. Jones." …Still nothing.

"Amerika." He flinched.

"Amerika. It's time. Get up."

Sky blue eyes lulled open drunkenly, rolling down from deep in his skull. Dark pupils turned and faced me unfocusedly. His eyes shone in comparison to the small, dark room. They were beautiful; they always had been, but now their crystal sharpness which glimmered once with life and passion, was obscured by a distant haze.

"Amerika. Come. Come and play with me, da?" He didn't move –didn't blink. He just stared at me with his vacant eyes which saw nothing.

"Kolkolkolkol," I laughed, grabbing his ankles and dragging him from his cell. His body scraped roughly against the cold, rock floor as he was dragged down the hall and into the room at the end. I pulled him in behind me and with a heave, threw him roughly across the room and turned to lock the door. Amerika was so light now, so thin and fragile. He flew from my hands and I heard his bones thump softly against the unforgiving stone wall. He fell to the ground, slumped over and heaving slightly, but still staring vacantly at the ground. I hated that. I'd make him look at me again.

I pulled my pipe out from my jacket and held it firmly in my hand. It was cold, and as I ran it against Amerika's bare arm, he shivered reflexively. I felt the corners of my mouth tilt upward, and I let the pipe fall to the ground. I drug it toward me with a screeecchhh and then it was in the air, falling to connect brutally with his shin.

He didn't cry out in pain… no, he hadn't done that in years. His beautiful features contorted in pain and he shuddered, releasing his breath shakily. His shin was broken. It lay now, twisted into a grotesque angle, quickly swelling with sickening shades of an unhealthy purple. His skin was so pale against the swelling and for a moment, I missed seeing bruises on his beautiful sun kissed skin. He was sallow now, with dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones. The only thing he would consume was the vodka I would leave in his cells some nights in hopes of forcing him to sleep. _It'd be a waste of time if he died after all of this…_ At least… that's what I'd tell myself.

America:

I used to count each day, meticulously. I'd force myself to remember everything I failed to do, everyone I'd failed to save, and when. I don't know any more. I can't tell when I'm awake or asleep. It's all just the same nightmares. All I can see is their faces. All I can hear are their screams and God, oh God, it hurts. It could have been years since then, decades even. I can't tell anymore. He'll drag me into my cell, bloodied and battered and leave me there with a couple bottles of vodka, and before I know it, he's back again. I only know that time has passed since my wounds have healed. He always waits for me to heal before he tortures me again.

What does he want from me? I thought he would be happy with the world falling apart around him. I know he's always hated us …the way he'd stare at us with his creepy fake smile plastered on his face. I'd swear he'd wanted this all along. But instead of leaving me there to die like I deserved, he dragged me here and forces me to live. He tortures me and brutalizes me, but for some sick reason he wants me to live.

Russia:

I grabbed his shoulder from where he lay on the ground and picked him up so he could balance on my shoulder. He hung against me limply, slumped over as dead weight on his broken legs and leaving trails of blood on my coat. I shoved him into his cell where he fell abruptly, bones bending at right angles like a puppet falling to the ground after the puppeteer drops his strings. I watch as more blood gushes out of his open wounds onto the already bloodstained floor of his cell and after grabbing a couple bottles of vodka bottles from down the hall and setting them by the door, I close it and lock them together inside. I turned and left them, then. America was a nation, he was strong and he would heal completely from his injuries in a week's time. I'll come back then, and we'll do this all again.

Narrator:

Russia walked up the creaky wooden stairs up into his back hallway and carefully shut and locked the reinforced titanium basement door behind him. He slowly staggered from his back hallway into his living room where he started to pour himself a large glass of vodka and then reconsidered, carrying to bottle with him to his leather armchair. His massive frame fell into the chair with exhaustion and the old chair creaked in mild protest. Nudging his boots off with his toes, he stretched his feet, covered only in threadbare socks toward the warmth of his fireplace.

Russia's house had always been grand and beautiful, ever since he could remember. Once, it was a palace where the greatest of royalty lived, but it was mighty still today, if a little worn and forgotten. The house was much like Russia himself. That was probably why he took such pride in it. Both were tall, well-built, and very capable of standing through the ages against the frigid climate and brutal winds. Both Russia and his house had lived through the glory of a noble life and the horrors of abandonment and starvation. They had survived many horrors together and the crisis that had broken America was only the latest of many between them. It wasn't difficult for Russia to survive against the attacks. He wasn't a target. Russia's time had passed long ago, and now he was all but forgotten by all but his closest allies and fiercest enemies. The brutality which had crippled the western world had no interest in the effort it would take to break Russia. Russia was strengthened by horrors much greater than nations even twice his age had ever seen. His heart had long since become hard and cold, frozen like the wasteland in which he suffered. He stared into the fire, remembering nostalgically places and people that time had long ago forgotten, and swigged his alcohol hungrily until his eyes became heavy and he drifted into sleep.

_SLAM! SLAM! I could hear the German armies fighting to break down the door. I was young, in my mid to late teens and I was curled up under a table on the third floor. SLAM! I can't breathe. God, God, please. SLAM! Please don't let them in. Don't let them take me. SLAM! I heard the door downstairs shudder from the impacts. SHUDDERSLAM SHUDDER. I can't face them yet. I never would have expected them at my doorstep so soon. _

_CRACKSHUDDER I couldn't breathe anymore. CRASHthumpthumpthumpthump The footsteps were heavy, but measured. Creeaaakk The door to the room I was hiding in opened slowly and he stepped into the room. From under the table I could only see his well-shined boots and the pant legs of his military uniform. He leaned down slowly, leering at me, cold blue eyes and oiled blonde hair. He smiled revealing the sharp white teeth of a predator. His eyes met mine. _

"_Heil, Ivan," he greeted me. Everything turned to darkness._

Russia:

I awoke with a start, cold and wet with sweat. My fire had long since died to embers and I no longer had the Baltics here to refresh it as I slept. I stood on shaky feet and slid my bloodstained jacket off, hanging it on the edge of my chair. My knees stretched with a crack and I left my living room seeking a shower to clear my head. Finding a towel hanging in the bathroom from the other day, I turned the water on high to the warmest setting and stripped as I waited for it to heat. In a couple minutes, the old pipes managed to heat the water to a searing temperature and I stepped in, breathing heavily as the water burned sensitive, untouched skin. Steam filled the air and my lungs felt warm and wet, almost heavy and pneumatic in the extreme conditions. My skin flushed an angry red wherever the water ran across it and my head was cleared by the Hellish warmth. I turned the knob on the wall and cooled the water with a sigh. The Nazis were dead. Germany was near death. They were the least of my concerns now.

I thought about America lying in his cell, broken and healing slowly without his consent. Even in the warmth of my shower I shudder thinking of what his dreams must be like. I remember the horrors. I remember the agony I felt as the hero Lenin slaughtered masses of my people, …the tearing I felt inside when Stalin took power behind him and the years without sleep as I sat back, feeling each and every one of my people he killed dying inside of me. It's different for America; it always is, but it's also much of the same. Years, even decades, that I cannot remember now that they have passed. Communist Russia… An American hero who has to watch, unable to save those he had sworn to protect…. Yes.. it's always much of the same.


	2. Chapter 2

America:

When I came to I was lying on the ground in a puddle of dried blood. My body screamed in pain with sharp stabs and throbs. My legs had already started healing but there was extensive damage done. It'd probably be another week before I could walk again… not that I particularly cared to. That was when I noticed the bottles sitting just inside the door frame. _Fuck._ I eyed the bottles preparing myself to move. Inching forward was torture. I pulled myself along the ground with my arms, dragging my legs as carefully as I could behind me. As I moved across the ground, I could feel the wounds along my chest and stomach tearing open and once again bleeding. Drops of blood were wiped across the ground beneath me, leaving a trail much like a slug. I felt pathetic. _Here I am, pulling myself across the ground, bleeding and broken for alcohol to drown my thoughts away. I was the United fucking States of America!_ Regardless of what I am or was, I grabbed the first bottle, tore it open with my teeth and gulped it down. I used to struggle to drink it. It always felt so hot and chemical inside of me… I don't feel much of anything anymore.

I guess that's not true… I do feel. I feel emptiness. I feel sadness. Most of all, I feel loathing. I hate myself for being unable to save them when they needed me, and every time I think of their faces, begging up to me to save them, I feel sick. How could I portray myself as a hero and parade myself around like I could save the world when I couldn't save a. single. one. They're probably all dead now, dead and gone rotting away in Hell like I should be. I'm pathetic. I keep thinking I want to die and wishing I was dead, but here I am, clinging on to the Earth for my life like a filthy parasite. I don't blame him for torturing me. If I had the energy I'd probably torture me too.

Narrator:

A week and a half passed before Russia came to visit the American again. He had waited anxiously, occasionally standing at the basement door for hours as if expecting an answer about the other's condition. He stood there, drink in hand, and stared down the door. Slowly he tilted the drink back, and with a single gulp, it was gone. He set the glass on a small wooden table and unlocked the door.

Russia:

When I opened the door I was met with a cool, moist breeze. The basement was old and filled with mildew. When the house was built, the basement was used for storage, but during my Soviet days, the house was refitted with the equipment necessary for detaining prisoners, even ones who happened to be countries. Needless to say, it wasn't exactly fit for company. There had been many people detained in this basement for extended periods of time. During my darkest times, I would send my own people or my allies down into these cells and would torture them for days for information about nonexistent threats. The walls carry stains of blood and sometimes I swear I can hear the screams of those who died down here. Times were hard and everyone was an enemy. I'm sure America remembers that.

I stepped heavily down the hall thinking about the task before me. I would torture the American again… but which bones would I break? Which would I leave intact, covered in cuts and bruises? All of the nations have scars, but it seems inappropriate to scar his face. He's so young… he might not seem it much right now, but he is. I remember when I first met him. The world was just as harsh back then, and there he was, glowing with innocence and power. He was extraordinary. I remember when he broke free from England. I read it in the newspaper in my chair by the fireplace, and I remember being utterly unsurprised. Once, no one could rein him in. He was a mighty stallion, flicking his mane and stomping his feet indignantly at the bridles the nations tried to put on him. He was powerful, strong-willed, stubborn, and stupid. But he was beautiful…

I opened the door to his cell to find him, as I usually did, unconscious or damn near. He lay slumped over onto himself with a bottle between his legs and his arms wrapped limply around it. He looked like a skeleton propped up against it, ancient and white in the dark, dank cell. I called to him.

"Mr. Alfred~," as per usual, he didn't stir.

"Mr. Jones… it's that time again, da?" He shifted back against the wall, staring down at the ground. "It's not very nice to ignore me, Amerika." He shuddered, and I grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him down the hall. I nudged him into the room with the bottom of my foot and left it on him as I turned and locked the door. He lay there motionless beneath my foot, moving only for shallow breaths, in and out. I watched him for a moment and then with a sigh, connected my boot roughly with his gut. He stiffened immediately and slowly curled in on himself, laying on the ground in the fetal position.

"You're pathetic, Alfred." He didn't look at me; he just lay there with his eyes averted toward the ground. "You were something incredible once, weren't you, Alfred? You were gonna save the world? Look at you now. What the fuck happened to you?" He flinched heavily, closing his eyes as if to make me disappear.

"Hunh? Mr. Jones? What. The. Fuck. Happened?" I accented each word with another harsh kick. He wouldn't reply still so I reached into my coat and grabbed my pipe. I held it in one hand and let it fall to the ground with a threating thunk of metal on stone. I dragged it menacingly, scraping on the ground as I walked around to face him. He was laying in the fetal position facing away from me to avoid my pointed kicks. I rested it below his chin and lifted it and his face to look at me. His eyes opened slowly and my violet eyes were met with a lazy sky blue. He was dead inside. It was obvious from his eyes. Where did Alfred go? Where was the son of a bitch who hated me, my Communism, and everything we stood for? I let his face fall and I spat on him.

"You're dying here. You know that, don't you Alfred? You're letting it consume you. How bad would it look –the great America survives the worst string of terrorist attacks of the century only to fall at the hands of Mother Russia? …not that I had to do much. You're killing yourself for me, aren't you, Alfred? It's ironic, really. Here I go to all this effort to kill you myself, dragging you from where you lay dying and patching you up …all so I can kill you myself. Fuck that, eh Alfie?"

It was quiet for a while. He didn't move. He didn't speak or blink. He just fucking lay there and stared at the fucking ground. I stepped on his hand and drove my heel into it. When that didn't warrant much of a reaction, I swung my pipe down onto his hand, breaking at least two of his fingers. He still wouldn't look up. I kicked him over so he was laying on his back and his eyes fell down to the wall. I stood over him and stared down at his beautiful blue eyes which just wouldn't meet mine.

"Vse zayebalo!" I'd have to try something else.. I grabbed him up by his shoulders and stood him up against the wall. I pressed into him from behind, using my gloved hands to force his face into the wall.

"Fucking capitalist filthy son of a bitch! What the fuck do I have to do…" I bit down into his shoulder until I could feel him bleeding in to me. He tensed against the wall as my teeth sunk in and he began to breathe more quickly. I licked the blood where it was spreading and allowed my tongue to trace its way up his neck. He tasted bitter and salty, and his smell obvious from months without a decent shower. I would spray him down some times to avoid infection. His smell was still present, but not unbearable. I sunk my teeth into the lobe of his ear, leaving a bloody bite mark behind. I ran gloved hands along his chest as I pinned him into the wall with one knee between his legs.

_I hate him so much. How can he just lay there and take it like this? He's so disgusting and pathetic. He doesn't even know that they're all still alive, and I'll be damned if I tell him. This fucking hollow shell… where has Alfred gone?_

Narrator:

Gloved hands ran down his pale, sallow frame and fingers slipped under the waistband of his jeans. They were easily slid to the ground in a furious motion due to his excessive weight loss. The Russian removed his jeans and underwear and forced him up further against the wall holding his cheeks with each hand. The older appraised his body and after unzipping his own pants and removing an erect member, he quickly thrust into the man beneath him. The blond screamed and shook under the other man as he thrust into him. Blood ran down his member from the torn skin of the other's anus. Russia rest his head on the American's shoulder and thrust into him brutally, breathing heavily into his ear.

America:

_God. It hurts so much. He's tearing me apart… what the fuck is wrong with him? _Tears ran down my face as he pounded into me. I could feel myself tearing around his penis. White hot pain consumed me like fire and I was crying when I passed out.

Russia:

After a particularly hard thrust I felt his body go limp and I pulled myself out of him, watching as blood seeped out of his hole. I dropped him immediately and watched as he fell to the ground, battered, bloodstained, and naked except for the jeans around his ankles. I backed up slowly until I was met by the wall and I slid down it slowly until I was sitting on the ground. With my pants still open, I stared at him. He looked so horrible… almost exactly like all the dead bodies I'd seen and created. Goddamnit, Alfred. I was shocked when I felt warmth on my cheeks and I tested with a finger to find that I was crying. I hadn't cried since Stalin died, but here I was, crying. How pathetic. There's nothing wrong, no one has died. Just fucking deal with it… I let out a heavy sob and a chocked gasp for air.

"_Fuck… _Alfred. Please come back…"


	3. Chapter 3

America:

When I regained consciousness, I was back in my cell. Russia must have redressed me after he finished with me as my pants were on my waist, zippered and buttoned properly. But, while I was pondering that, another question presented itself in the form of a small white bottle sitting next to me. I shifted over as gingerly as I could to check its contents to find that inside the bottle was a softly scented lotion.

_What the fuck? Does he expect me to prepare myself next time? Fuck him!_

I rolled over with a wince, ignoring the bottle and why it might be there as best as I could, and tried to fall asleep by staring blankly at the wall. I knew I would have to close my eyes in order to sleep, but I couldn't bear to. As soon as I did, all I would see is my mistakes, and maybe Russia's face, tormenting me.

_I know. I know, and I'm sorry!_

Narrator:

Russia stared deep into the fire, seeking answers. Why? Why was he torturing America? He didn't enjoy it. There was no pleasure in torturing the man. He was already dead inside so there was nothing to twist and torment with his words, and his pipe had never had a great effect on the spirited young man. Why was he putting himself to so much effort? He thought about the moment he decided to save America. What made him carry his unconscious body for miles just to bandage him? Why did he feel the need to... do _that _to him?

After the Attacks:

Russia had traveled to Europe to survey the damage but he never expected this. The nations were brutalized and occupied by forces of the new radical regime. Europe had fallen in only five years and America had spread his forces too far trying to protect and regain the occupied lands. America fell shortly after, but not with an explosion or a deafening crack like Russia would have expected. Aren't the people who live fiercely supposed to die fiercely? No, America fell with a sickening wail of agony.

Though the nation had been isolated from the crises on the Eastern hemisphere, each nation that fell felt like his own territory. America was the hero. It was his job to save the world from situations exactly like this. He had dreamed since he was a colony of coming to England's recue and protecting him from harm. He had thrown himself into countless battles with little hope for victory in hopes of being a hero, until finally he found a war too big. A war that he could not only not win on his own, but one he couldn't escape from. He was the first to charge into battle and the last to fall, so he watched as his allies fell around him.

Russia had known of the attacks on Europe and had watched as Africa and South America fell, but he also knew that no matter what was happening outside his country, he had a duty to his people to protect them at all costs. He kept his military at his borders and strengthened security in his own land, but outside, Russia was a neutral force. The Russian people had experienced too much suffering and the nation was not ready for a large scale war against a violent terrorist regime. This time, all Russia could do was watch and wait for news. News came and he heard of Europe's fall. He expected American forces to retreat home and protect what they could, but foolishly, the Americans stayed. They were stupid, idealistic, beautiful martyrs. Their bodies littered the landscape in the forms of young men and women of all different races lying dead in a pool of their own blood.

Russia walked across the European battlefield, not expecting survivors. Greater nations had fallen at the hands of lesser threats, but the world was different now. After years of peace and whispered promises of an age without war, the nations had become determined and intertwined in a way. They expected each other to be there, like the sun rising every morning. While their soldiers lie dead in their battlefields, the citizens stood strong in secret, promising to rise again by the light of smuggled candles. Yes, they had fallen and risen before, and like the phoenix, they would rise again.

The American people were different. They had been the strongest, the bravest, and the best, and failed. Alfred's nation was a land of promise and opportunity. He taught his people of his vision of a world free with democracy and peace. They were just as optimistic and enthusiastic in his ideals as he was and they intended to do everything they could to get there.

Russia had been walking across the scarred landscape of France when he discovered the American. He was laying on his side, nose and mouth red with dried blood while the gaping wound in his chest still bled. Russia studied the American face. His face was twisted in pain and his blonde hair was bright against the red blood. Even marred and broken, the American was still radiant. While he had always hoped to see the American like this, he somehow missed his goofy smile. Something about that smile and his sparkling eyes made him feel… something. Something that twisted and churned his insides in a way he wasn't sure he liked… but seeing the young man like this… that was even worse. It seemed like, such a disappointment? …Such a waste of a strong spirit that he would have liked to have broken. That was it, right? It didn't really matter. The smaller man was heaved onto his shoulder and carried away by a Russian who with each step wondered '_why?'._


	4. Chapter 4

Russia:

Why? W.H.Y. It was all I could think about. My every waking moment was consumed with these three, insignificant letters, symbols really, which humans gave significance. Why did I save him? Why am I keeping him here? Why haven't I told him? I can't lie to myself any more. I can't pretend that the man I hate most in the world didn't bring me to tears. He broke me down and made me weak without his gun, or his fists, or his words. He just sat there and did nothing. How can I look myself in the mirror after holding my enemy and crying? He's doing something to me. Somehow, just by being here, he's changing me, and I hate it. I hate him. It's his fault. I contemplated this over a bottle and a second bottle of vodka, until I was decided.

Furious, I stormed down into the basement, unlatching and throwing the reinforced door open with a heavy metal thud. I intended to kill him, then and there. To torture him and bleed him out like I never had before. And why? I had brought him here to torture him, and since he would not react, he was no good for that, right? He was useless and weak now, and the useless and the weak are to be destroyed and consumed by the strong. That's nature.

I stormed down the hall and slammed the cell door open after unlocking it with deft hands. He didn't even try to look up at me as I grabbed him by his hair, dragging him by the blond strands. I wrenched his head up to mine and stared into the hazy abyss of his eyes. _Pathetic!_ I cast him away from me in disgust and he crumpled down the floor like wet paper. He had no will for determining where he would go, what he would do… he didn't care.

I straddled him on the ground and placed my hands around his throat. They tightened around the cylinder of flesh like a boa constrictor, coiling tighter and tighter with every exhaled breath, making the next even harder. I had no intention of rushing this in the slightest. I would watch his every step toward death; people show their true selves before they die. As soon as they know there's no escape, there's no reason to fake it any more. The mask falls away, leaving the only honest face they'll ever show on a corpse. My eyes were trained on his face, watching hungrily like a cat. I licked my lips as he choked and gasped underneath me. _Yes, I would see Alfred again, if only for a moment. _

America:

All I could do as he throttled and strangled me was think. I was limp and tired; I didn't have any will inside of me to fight back. I let his hands, tighten and tighten, waiting for the final release. My vision went black and then hazy. …but then there were people, standing before me. At first it was France, looking down at me a crying, and then Japan. I was faced with England next, he looked like he did the night of my revolution, stiff-lipped with tears running freely. Canada floated in to my vision, brother… I was terrible_. How could I make my brother cry? _They wouldn't have wanted this. _No… stop... I can't die yet!_

Russia:

_There! _Alfred's face began contorting in to something besides discomfort. His eyes shut and tears began to roll down his face. He opened them suddenly and stared at me with clarity beyond what you would expect for someone about to die. He couldn't speak but he choked and mouthed a single word, "Stop."

I was shocked and my hands fell down to my sides. _Alfred. _He didn't want to die. I stiffened when I felt his hand on my shoulder and was terrified to look at his face. _Why?_

"Alfred…" I was afraid to face him. _He hasn't changed. Nothing's changed. He's still empty and broken and you're weak. Kill him._ I sobbed and reached my violently shaking hands for his throat. _Alfred. Alfred… Give him back!_

My hands fell weak around his throat and I fell forward, catching myself with my hands on either side of his head. Startled, I looked down and saw his face… his eyes… I was floating in the sunny skies.

America:

I was startled when he fell over me, expecting to feel a knife in my gut. I waited for the pain but none came. I looked up when I felt a water droplet on my cheek. My hand instinctively touched it. It was warm. Confused, I looked up at my tormentor. His fake smile was gone, his face was lax and his eyes were warm… too warm. His tears were running down his cheeks and dripping on to mine.

"R-Russia? Man… what are you doing?" He stifled a sob so it sounded like a choke. He was staring down at me with something I couldn't recognize… whatever it was, it made me nervous.

"Russia?" I tried to push him off me, but I was weak from months without food. I wiggled underneath him, trying to get out.

"Russia!" He startled and stared blankly for a moment, before he smiled. It wasn't the sick and twisted smile I had seen so many times before… It was something else. It was warmer and more genuine than anything I had ever seen on the man.

"Alfred…" He muttered under his breath. "You're back…"

"Yeah… something like that…"


	5. Chapter 5

America wiggled under the Russian.

"Russia, if you're not going to kill me, let me up." Russian eyes moved town to watch the pink American lips, cracked and dry from malnutrition. "Ivan, let me go."

"Nyet." Russia wanted nothing more in that moment than to stay near Alfred, the Alfred who had been gone so long. He had grown tired of the hollow shell and couldn't bear to look at it any more. That's why he had tried to kill him, and although there were questions running rampant in his head demanding to be answered, he decided that for this moment, he would be here. Why he wanted to be here could be addressed later.

Russia stared down at the man beneath him, no longer crying, but studying his features. Without realizing it, he shifted his weight to his left hand and knee and lifted his hand. His fingers met the side of Alfred's face which was bony and cool against his hand. His hand lingered there, neither knowing exactly how to respond. Russia was shocked by the movement, but had no interest in removing the hand. America was just shocked. His face was blank for a couple moments until it twisted in to confusion and then rage. He snarled at the other and spat into his face. Russia's hand moved from America's cheek to the spit on his face, and after slowly wiping it off, he lifted his arm and punched the American in the same place his hand had caressed only moments before. Russia stood faster than the American could process, and he was shocked when a boot met his stomach. He growled in pain and turned to look at the Russian, seeing only his back as he walked out the cell door.

America:

I lie on the floor for a while, unsure of what to do with myself and where I should go from here. _First thing, I need to escape. _Holding my stomach, I looked up at the cell door. I hadn't previously stopped to check the security of the door, as I had no intention of escaping, or doing anything else for that matter. Regardless, the security of the door shocked me. Where I had expected the door to be a heavily guarded blockade, preventing my escape, I had expected dead wrong. The door might have been a sturdy, titanium metal door, which I would have struggled immensely to escape from, but it was also hanging wide open. Russia must have been so caught up in his psychotic thoughts that he forgot to lock it.

I limped slightly over to the door, my eyes blinded by the dimmest of lights after extended periods in the dark. Once my eyes finally focused, I saw a dark hallway before me with bloodstains on the walls. _Jesus, this guy really is fucked up…_ I moved forward with stuttering steps as my legs were weak and unsteady from repeated breaks and repairs combined with disuse. I was exhausted before I had walked thirty feet, but I was driven onward by a light coming from around a corner at the end of the hall. I moved toward it at a cripplingly slow pace, sick with anticipation for what Russia had in store for me, but when I turned the corner, there was a staircase. _This must be a basement of some kind… that explains the smell. _

My legs were shaking with exhaustion as I pulled myself up the stairs, using my arms against the filthy walls more than my legs to push me further. I stumbled out of the stairway into a dimly lit room where the old, splintered wood creaked harshly beneath my step. There was a light to my left and I could hear the crackling of a fireplace. I moved toward it, forgetting Russia for a moment and thinking only of how I longed for the warmth and comfort. Sitting before the fireplace, there was an old leather chair which was tattered and worn, but still sang of days of elegance. I could see white strands, glowing in the flickering light above the top of the chair and as my eyes focused further, I could make out the top half of his head. I felt fury well up inside of me and I was ready to lash out when he spoke softly.

"Sit, Amerika. 'ave a drink." He didn't turn to face me, just stared blankly toward the fire. I stepped forward nervously and the floor creaked with every step.

"Come Amerika. It's over." He sounded so genuine, but also something else. Maybe… sad? I cautiously sat on a larger couch near the fire, wanting to relax in to the glowing warmth in front of me, but also fearing the consequences. I turned to him with my eyes squinted.

"What do you want, Russia?" I asked acidly.

"Nothing, Alfred. …I don't know," he sighed in resigned frustration, standing and walking over to a long wooden table covered in glass bottles. He grabbed a bottle and two large glasses and poured a clear liquid in each. As he walked back to his chair, I could see that he was tired but also slightly crazed. His eyes glowed maliciously in the light and his hair was a mess. He handed me one of the glasses and slumped back in to his chair. I sniffed the liquid suspiciously. It would be just like him to poison us both, in some sick double suicide.

"It's just wodka, Alfred. Your favorite." I growled at the tasteless attempt at a joke and tasted the contents of the glass tentatively. It burned the tip of my tongue, and I relaxed recognizing the burn.

"Do you have anything besides this drain cleaner?"

"No. Just wodka," he said before downing the contents of his glass. He stood again and retrieved the bottle, carrying it back to his seat. I watched as he drank deeply from the bottle. He turned slowly to look at me, and smiled sadly.

"W-What? What the fuck do you want?" He turned back to watch the fire for a few moments, and I watched his profile expectantly.

"They're alive, you know."


	6. Chapter 6

America:

"They're… alive? Then what... Why?" His head turned to me with one bushy eyebrow raised.

"Why are they alive?"

"No. Why are you keeping me here? Why didn't you tell me? What the fuck is wrong with you?" I glared at him, shuddering as I remembered his brutal beatings. "What the fuck do you stand to gain in all of this if they're still alive? Just watching me suffer… are you really that sick?" I watched him flinch under the weight of my accusations. His eyebrows furrowed and he turned back to the fire, bringing the bottle back to his lips for another gulp. He frowned and turned the bottle upside down, holding it above his open mouth until a single drop fell out. I was seething.

I jumped from my seat and stalked over to him. He showed no interest in my approach, but instead focused sad eyes on his empty bottle. I lurched forward and smacked it violently out of his hands. It flew across the room and collided with the wall, shattering into a million sparkling fragments. I grabbed him up by his collar and he stared blankly back at me.

"I asked you a question, Ivan," I uttered darkly.

"You asked me a couple, Amerika." My fist collided with his face, as he stared back. His lip cracked and began bleeding as blood dripped from my knuckles on to the floor.

"I asked you, a fucking question," I leaned in menacingly.

"They're alive. I've said that before, or have you already forgotten?" My hand loosened on his collar as I was overwhelmed with emotion. I felt like I was falling and floating at the same time. They were alive… But then… if they were actually alive, why was I still here? Someone would have gone looking for me, and the most logical place to start would be Russia's house.

"You're lying."

"Nyet, I am not."

"You have to be lying. Why else would I still be here? Someone would have come for me!" Violet eyes shone from under his bangs, "but what would I gain by lying now?"

_I don't know. There's got to be something, some trick he's playing…_

"I… don't know," I muttered to myself.

"Nothing, Alfred. I stand to gain nothing. Just leave. Go find them, or whatever you want to do now, but leave before I do something stupid."

"…something stupid? Like, kidnap me and torture me for months straight, keeping me from the fragment of information which might have made my life bearable? Something stupid like that?"

"Something stupid like save you from imminent demise, bleeding to death in the battlefield and carrying you back here. Yes, something stupid. Just leave."

"You call this saving me? Strangling me until I'm ready to fight back?"

"Something like that… just please, go," he stood from his chair and circled toward me like a predatory cat.

"Please go? You're asking me for something now? You have the fucking audacity to-MMMPH" He had stepped toward me suddenly and entangled his fingers in my hair, pulling me roughly toward him. His lips were suffocating mine and I paused for a moment, feeling the gentleness behind his lips before pushing him back roughly and letting him fall to the ground. He refused to meet my eyes, instead looking at the ground beside him.

"Just go," he whispered, and I went.

I threw the door open and stepped out into the tundra. My feet were bare and I wore only the slightest of clothing. A shiver ripped through my body and I prepared myself to face the long walk back to civilization.

Russia:

It was a few minutes before I stood and closed the door behind him, shivering only slightly at the draft. He had rejected me after I had finally figured out why I had wanted him. He was the stallion that could never be tamed and I watched him grow into something strong, and bright, and magnificently beautiful. I had always been watching him, waiting for him to fail, and fall and become broken inside like the rest of us. But as much as he suffered, he still shone and galloped brilliantly through blooded battlefields and broken towns. Blood would stain the world around him, but he stood pristine, somehow still angelic surrounded by suffering. I wanted to tame him. I wanted to wrap myself up in the warmth and light which surrounded him, so when he fell, I felt cold –colder than I ever had. We had suffered and starved, but through all of the horrors and torments, I relied on him. The sun would always rise tomorrow and Alfred would always be extraordinary. I hated him for it. I wanted to break him down and show in him everything I knew in me. But more than I hated him, I loved him. And for that I hated him even more.


	7. Chapter 7

America:

I think the strangest difference between being a nation and a human is that we are always drawn to home. Unlike people who can be easily lost only miles from their home, I could never get lost. Part of me will always be in America, and whenever things get tough, I can feel my people calling me home. Sure, the land has its physical mass and borders, and I have a body, but on a deeper level it's much more difficult to discern which part of my thoughts, feelings, and who I am, are actually my own. When my nation suffers, I too suffer. But when I suffer, does me nation?

The cold was relentless, stealing every ounce of warmth from my limbs until they burned against the snow. I was freezing on the outside, but my nerves were crawling around inside me like ants, making me itch with anticipation and an endless pile of questions. I didn't want to think about why Russia did what he did, or any aspect of our ordeal together. Feelings like fear, dread, and betrayal weighed heavily in my empty stomach and digested as well as concrete. I could ignore the itching of those questions under my skin, but there was one question I couldn't escape. Assuming the nations had survived, why had they… _abandoned me? _The word abandoned felt raw and both hot and cold at the same time in my head. I tried to shake the thought away, _I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this. The other nations wouldn't leave me to die… not England or Japan or Canada any way…_

I walked for hours until I found the first signs of civilization. There was a small, warmly glowing light apparent over a drift of snow, and upon seeing it my limbs no longer seared with every icy step, but instead a numbness overcame me. I was heading homeward. Maybe not to my land and other half, but toward the nations which mattered to me. I imagined Canada's face, happy and relieved to see me alive, greeting me in his silent way with open arms. I imagined England grabbing me by my collar and ruffling my hair with his fist for being gone so long. The thoughts were warm and bright in my head until the cloud of doubt overwhelmed them. _But, what if…_

Narrator:

After America reached the home, he knocked gently on the door and a small, suspicious, old woman allowed him inside to use the phone as she prepared him some tea. She wondered at the strange foreigner in the backlands of Russia, but had been carefully taught to never ask questions and to keep your mouth shut. Russia was a tumultuous land in both terrain and politics and to survive either, you needed to keep your thoughts to yourself.

America dialed the CIA and explained to them the situation. He requested a flight to the next world meeting.

"Mr. America, I cannot allow you to attend a meeting. You've been MIA for the last couple months and it would be in the best interest of the nation for us to assess your mental and physical health and understand the situation in greater detail. You say that Mr. Russia saved your life, but you should've healed much more quickly. National security is at risk if you do not fully disclose—"

"What was your name again?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Tell me your name! That is an order!"

"But, sir! This is an unprotected line!"

"Did I ask for your goddamn excuses? What. Is. Your. Name?"

"S-Steven Ross… sir," the agent whispered into the line.

"Good. Steven, listen to me very carefully. You are going to book me the goddamn flight I asked for, and you are going to do it immediately. I am your superior and if you disobey me I will make sure that you are exported out of my country with the next batch of illegal immigrants so fast it will make your head spin. Have I made myself clear?"

"C-Crystal, sir."

"Now, when is the next world conference?"

"T-Tomorrow morning, sir!"

"Have a cab pick me up in Moscow in two hours. You are hereby released from you position in the CIA and I would suggest changing your name immediately." America hung up the phone and exhaled deeply. He wouldn't have actually exported one of his citizens, but he was extremely grateful that Steve was a moron, utterly unfit for the CIA.

America turned from the phone to leave, and was extremely startled when the old woman stood behind him and forced a hot cup of coffee into his hands.

"Thank you, ma'am… I thought you were making tea?"

"Nyet, from the sounds of it, you need coffee," the old woman's face crinkled with a toothless smile as she handed him a mug. "Take it with you, Da?"

"Da. Thank you," Alfred smiled at the woman before turning to leave again.

After a couple miles more of walking, Alfred reached Moscow. He was exhausted, but he had to hand it to Steven Ross of the CIA. He may have been dumb enough to buy a bluff, but he sure knew how to summon a cab. Upon Alfred's arrival in Moscow, he was met by a small Russian cab driver with the door open and the heaters running. The Russian passed a single airline ticked over the seat without looking at the American or asking where he was headed. America accepted the ticket with a nod and as soon as the door was closed, the cabbie drove.

It didn't take long to reach the airport, and America understood enough Russian to catch his flight. He boarded the plane and sat in a window seat. Airplanes had always put the American to ease, and he soon dozed off, snoring rather contentedly, dreaming of memories.


	8. Chapter 8

**Quick Note:**

**I try to avoid commenting, but I'd like to thank everyone who is following my stories. It's really a great inspiration to keep writing when I receive messages of encouragement and suggestions. Comments are always greatly appreciated and are the only known cure for writer's block. I would also like to mention that I am holding a little contest to try to gain some attention as a FF writer. It's pretty painfully simple and the prize is a Hetalia fanfic of a pairing of your choice. The first person to comment a legitimate response to all three of my stories and PM me what they want, gets a story. I doubt anyone's terribly interested, but for anyone who is, free story. : P Thanks! Please be sure to comment!  
**

America:

The plane landed stoutly, jerking me awake and I watched the runway pass by beneath me through blurry eyes. I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and rubbed my eyes awake. As soon as I could see with relative ease and accuracy, I began gathering my things. I had butterflies in my stomach as I did so, thinking about seeing everyone again, and how they might respond to my return. I hadn't informed anyone outside of my country about my intention to attend the meeting, but my hotel was booked and I was certain that there would be a proverbial place for me. …Relatively certain, anyhow. They never abandoned me in a time of war -not voluntarily. I had to believe that.

The businessman beside me stood immediately and nudged his way down the aisle after gathering his briefcase from the overhead compartments. Understandably, he wanted to be as far away from me as he could, as my clothing was bloodstained and probably reeked of vodka and vomit, but there were complaints from the people pushed aside, so I figured I would have to be patient. I waited until the people before me shuffled down the center, pausing again and again to gather forgotten things and to give me nervous glances, frustrating me to no end. It was unlike me to be this on edge. I was practically twitching with anticipation.

Finally, I left the plane and found my way to my hotel room. It was a modest room in London, England, with wide windows and a single bed. Upon the bed, someone had prepared some appropriate clothing for me to attend the meeting. Surely my nation didn't expect me to attend the meeting in rags, but they also didn't trust me to find my own clothes, apparently. I rolled my eyes, really very grateful for the gesture. I stripped the dirty rags I had left of my clothes and threw them away before stepping into the shower. The warmth was beyond heavenly and my muscles relaxed for the first time in months under the massaging spray.

Russia:

It was about six hours before the meeting and I was waiting in my hotel room before the first world conference in a great while. The plan was to discuss the world's affairs and how the nations ought to try the captured heads of the terrorist organization. The matters were serious, but something between the half bottle of vodka I was digesting and bitter memories kept me from caring about them. I sat slumped over the edge of the bed with the other half bottle in my hand and another bottle that I had picked up on the way in still in a paper bag on the bed. My mind was starting to fuzz a little and the chemicals took the edge off, allowing me a chance to think. _Would Alfred attend the meeting? How exactly would he react? The world had no time to deal with violence between nations, and Alfred usually wasn't one to involve the world in private affairs. What did he plan to do now?_

I drank deeply from the bottle in my hand as another thought hit me like a brick wall. I wasn't so concerned about punishment on the world stage for how I had treated Alfred, but I was concerned about how we left things between us. Or he did, I suppose I was beyond the chance for 'leaving' anything. I wanted him. Now that I had admitted that to myself, he was all I could think about. I wanted his lips on mine and his body spread beneath me. I wanted him to fuck me senseless and break me. I wanted him to tie me up and pass on to me all the suffering he had felt these past months. It was crazy and fucked up, but I just needed _him_.

Narrator:

Six hours passed quickly for both men as Russia fell asleep and America finished showering, dressed, and searched for something his body could handle digesting after his bout with malnutrition. He would have killed for a hamburger to ease his mind, but somehow he didn't think vomiting it across the sidewalk would ease him any further. He went to McDonald's anyway, purchasing only what he thought he had a prayer of digesting. When he was done, he had five large orders of fries and a large strawberry shake. He walked toward the UN headquarters in London, munching his fries.

By the time he had reached the regal building, his stomach was starting to ache and the food weighed down in his stomach like a brick. He threw away the wrappers and walked through the automatic doors toward the elevators. America had been to London many times before and knew many buildings by heart. He looked at the familiar red marble flooring and well-polished wooden walls. The building was very formal and professional, but also very uncomfortable, much like England himself. He smiled at the thought of seeing him again and adjusted his tie as the elevator's doors closed. When the elevator reached its destination, he strode down the familiar hallway and turned right after the fourth door. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside with slightly wavering steps. Inside sat China and Korea, arguing heatedly with each other as France and many of the other nations sat waiting in the same places they always did. America smiled at the thought and looked for his chair. Nothing had changed… except… He no longer had a spot. His seat had been removed.

He strode toward France who dropped his coffee unceremoniously once he noticed the younger. His eyes grew wide upon his paling face and he shuddered slightly.

"America…" he whispered.

"Hey, man," the American started, scratching the back of his head nervously, "where's England?"

"ENGLLAAANDD!"

"Wot?" The man entered the room causally with a frustrated glance toward the French man. France said nothing, his eyes shifting back to the thin, tired-looking America. England stopped in his tracked and studied his former charge.

"The…. The fucking 'ell you been?" England asked, striding toward America and studying him suspiciously. His voice awakened Italy who had been sleeping contentedly next to Germany in the back of the room. He blinked a couple times, and noticing the American shouted.

"GHOOOSTTT!" He screeched and climbed into Germany's lap. Germany was too startled to respond, staring unabashedly at the American as well. The room erupted in anxious murmurs.


	9. Chapter 9

Narrator:

America laughed awkwardly at the unwanted attention in the form of screeches and curious stares. Canada walked slowly forward from his seat, ironically unnoticed by the frightened nations. Canada was the closest thing there was to a ghost, but no one even saw him. Canada took even steps toward his brother, he was shocked and numb, floating toward the brother who he knew to be dead. He placed a hand gently on his brother's arm and studied him closely before nestling himself into the larger man's chest. He cried quietly, sobbing with shaky breaths with his hands holding tight to his brother's lapel.

England asked again, "If you've been alive all this bloody long… Where the fuck were you? Wot happened?" As England asked this, motion by the door caught America's eye and he looked over Canada to see Russia standing in the doorway, studying him. The violet eyes didn't contain fear, or malice like he would have expected; the only thing the American could feel from the other's stare was warmth, so much so that it made him shift with discomfort. He tore his eyes away from the other and smiled down at England apologetically.

"It's complicated." England stared at him for a moment, his mouth open and gasping for air like a fish out of water.

"Wa… Waa… wot! It's complicated? That doesn't explain anything!" England shouted furiously, his eyebrows significantly furrowed.

America hugged Canada tightly before stepping back and walking over to where his seat once sat. He ran his fingers over the glossy wooden surface of the table and glanced at England with a tired, but mischievous smile.

"I don't get a seat?" England's mouth just opened further and continued flapping. France studied America and then sighed, leaving to get a chair. Before he stepped out of the room, he closed the British man's mouth.

"He's okay now. He's not going to tell us anything so the best we can do is make him feel welcome." England continued to stare at the American, eying the new scars and sickly tinge. His insides were tearing inside of him thinking about all the things which might have happened, but took his seat, realizing the truth in what France had told him. France returned soon after with the young nation's chair and Germany took this as his cue to begin the meeting.

"As of last Friday, a majority of the suspected leaders of the terrorist organization were captured in Switzerland. We intend to try the suspects by the end of the month so we need…"

Germany continued his lecture explaining the action plan for the world nations in response to the crises. America sat in his newly retrieved chair and focused on the lecture until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he noticed Russia staring at him. He turned away quickly to study his handouts. The meetings were intended to answer significant questions, but America felt his churning inside of him, utterly unanswered.

The meeting lingered on, and America tried to ignore the occasional stares of the other nations and the unending focus of the Russian. Something was wrong with that man… wrong in a way that he hadn't been before, and he had always been plenty wrong. America tried to convince himself that he hadn't a clue of what the other nation may be thinking, but the way the other's lips had lingered on his told a different story. His eyes cast quickly downward, remembering the kiss and he bushed, his fingers instinctively touching his lips as he remembered the feel of the other man. That other man watched him carefully, his heart racing as he deciphered what the other was thinking. America's eyes glanced toward Russia and he stared for a moment, deep in thought, before he noticed the other smiling back. He turned away sharply, completely flushed and praying to God that no one had seen him staring beside the creepy Russian.

Unfortunately for him, a certain nation had been carefully watching, studying the two. His eyebrows scrunched together quizzically.

"France? Something wrong?" England whispered.

"Hunh? …oh, no, nothing." He spoke, quickly turning back to his notes.


	10. Chapter 10

America:

The meeting dragged on for hours after it was scheduled to end, so by the time Germany stopped talking, I was ready to beat my way out the door if I had to. That was the plan anyway until a hand laid itself gently on my shoulder. I felt my body tense considerably and tried to mentally relax. _It's probably just Canada._

"Солнышко…"

I felt sick with nerves. "Yeah, what the hell do you want now?"

"Nothing, I suppose. I am happy to see you're well."

"Yeah, thanks," I told him flippantly and as casually as my voice could manage. I refused to look at him, but just stood there, waiting for something. His hands gripped my shoulder softly and he started to speak, but then stopped. He stood there for a moment, and with a gentle squeeze, he turned away and walked out of the room. France, Canada, and England were standing by the door watching me. Canada and England smiled tentatively and France's eyes narrowed as the Russian walked by. I strode over to them, gathering my composure as best I could.

"He seems surprisingly pleased to see you breathing…" laughed Canada awkwardly.

"I guess…" I mumbled quietly. Canada watched me curiously, his violet eyes blazing with questions and concern.

"Yeah, hahaha, he's such a psycho. Seriously," I laughed a little too loud. Canada smiled back, a little more cautiously than before.

"Why don't we all come over to my house and have dinner? We haven't seen you in ages after all," England said looking at America, his face darkening considerably at the second part.

"N-No T-That's okay, England. We wouldn't want to trouble you," Canada stuttered sending emergency signals to France who picked up quickly.

"I live so close; it's really not a bother."

"Uhh… Oh! How about a restaurant?" France asked, mildly panicking.

"I guess…" he sighed. "Is that okay with you, America?"

"…hunh? Yeah, sure. Totally!" He smiled brightly at the others followed by his signature laugh. "We could get—"

"No! No bloody McDonald's!" America pouted sadly in response and they adventured out to find a decent restaurant.

Narrator:

About an hour later they were comfortably seated in a semi-formal British restaurant about which France had complained considerably. America ordered the most "American" thing he could find on the menu and both Canada and France ordered things he couldn't even pronounce. He was famished by the time the food arrived and dug in quickly despite his nerves. He hadn't eaten so much since the fights began.

Where everyone had been quiet initially, enjoying their meal and uncertain of what to say, as the plates began to dwindle and bellies began to fill, conversation jumped sporadically back to life. Matt and Alfred began retelling familiar jokes and Arthur and Francis returned to their usual bickering. France commented on the horrible quality of English food, thanking God that he didn't have to eat authentically English, English food. England's face brightened with fury.

"Yeah? Well at least my people can do more than nap and fuck," he jested angrily.

"Hon hon! The only thing you were good at was battle and conquest, and see how far that god you!" He laughed, his hand sweeping to signal at their dinner guests. England's bangs fell over his eyes and he fell silent. France had touched a sensitive nerve, bringing up his younger charges. It was on thing to talk about his pirate days and empires, but another to talk about losing Alfred. Painful memories flew through his head and with each he became increasingly furious with the Frenchman. France was struggling to backpedal over the obvious taboo when England retorted.

"At least I wasn't the first to fall."

". . ." Canada and America stopped talking and France's fork fell listlessly to his plate. America looked down to his lap.

"Arthur…" He started.

"Yeah! At least I had a chance to try to save them, you fell before you even got the chance!" He shouted, as tears rolled down his eyes. "Fat lot of help you were, hnngg…" His shoulders slumped down toward his chest and tears ran down his chin, dripping to his lap. France's eyes watered at the sight and he placed a hand on England's shoulder which England quickly shrugged off.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I tried to be strong, but my people… I wasn't ready for a battle like that." Arthur refused to look at him. "I'm still alive, right?"

Canada remembered what it had been like dragging France's body from the battlefield. There had barely been a centimeter of skin not marred by battle. His heart twisted fiercely in his chest, and he felt like it was coiled tightly in barbed wire. Tears perched precariously on America's eyelashes as he watched the others and he was soon crying.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I always said that I'd be there to save the world, but I really failed this time. Everyone almost died and it was completely my fault. I was supposed to save you…"

The others watched America, startled by his outburst and processing what he had said.

"I don't blame you for leaving me out there…"

The nations looked blankly between each other. Canada was the first to move. He set his fork on the edge of his plate and placed his hand on his brother's. America looked up, startled, and his eyes were met by violet orbs brimming with tears. His mouth opened ready to speak, but the look he was getting from the others at the table silenced him immediately. Canada's eyes searched his, looking deep into his soul.

"You thought w-we left you?" He asked, quietly, his voice cracking midsentence. He was silent for a moment and his eyes became hard and his voice was deep and stern when he started again. "You listen to me America, and you listen good. I would never, _never _leave you in a time of need," he gripped the American's strong hand firmly with a hand just as strong. "We're brothers, Alfred. I would sooner die than see you suffer and I know you would do the same. Don't you _ever_ doubt that."

America's eyes dried as he listened to his newly authoritative brother. He nodded slowly and silently, more to himself than to his brother before him. England and France watched America carefully, their eyes filled with apologetic affection. He looked up and blushed when he saw the others stare and turned his eyes quickly to stare at his thighs. He was silent for a moment before he started again.

"How are you…"

"Alive? We could as the same of you, not that you'd care to tell us. Probably just like you. It wasn't easy, but we took it day by day and slowly we healed. The hardest part was thinking you were gone and waiting for someone to take your place. I don't know if I could have handled watching another young nation grow from your soil…" England blushed.

France smiled sadly, and surveyed the food on the table. "We're just about done here. Why don't we head to England's for a nightcap? I'm sure you boys have plenty of catching up to do." The plan was decided and the nations paid their tabs and left the restaurant for England's house.


	11. Chapter 11

Narrator:

England's house hadn't really changed since America was a child. Sure, his room had been emptied and redecorated, as well as Canada's and India's, but essentially, nothing had changed. The walls were a pale cream, formal, and regal like their owner, but also with a hidden warmth. There were decorative doilies and plants and the furniture was made of old and well-loved dark wood. Nothing had been moved. The only things which showed the signs of age were the oriental carpets which had once been stiff and new, but now were soft and worn. As the front door opened and allowed the men inside, America was hit with a wall of memories. He remembered how he used to sit at that table when it was shiny and new and have tea and crumpets at the same time every day with England. He looked from the front entrance in to the living room where a Christmas tree had sat every winter and he remembered decorating it the first winter that Canada stayed with them. He remembered holding Canada up as best as he could so he could place the bright red bulbs on the higher branches, and when they fell asleep by the fire, waiting for Santa. He remembered all the laughter, love, and pain that this house had held. It felt so strange to be back, he thought as he slipped off his shoes, still looking around.

"Come on in, I'll get some drinks. Wot's everyone's fancy?"

"Wine would be lovely, Angleterre," France smiled.

"Whatever's fine," said Canada.

"Yeah, whatever you're having," America agreed. Anything, so long as it wasn't vodka. America shook that thought from his head as England retrieved a bottle of wine and a bottle of rum along with four glasses. He placed them on the living room end table and served them carefully. France's wine was poured in to a delicate wine glass and the others had a hearty cup of rum. England handed the glasses to their new owners and urged them to take a seat on the living room couches. America and France sat down on the long couch facing the fireplace and Canada sat himself delicately on a nearby armchair. They chatted amicably, refilling their drinks many times, for over the years, the nations had all learned the benefits of alcohol in the toughest times. For America and Canada, beer was a way of life which bonded their peoples together. Rum had a long history in England, and in France, the wine poured as freely as water.

They appreciated the subtle numbness spreading across their bodies, and conversation changed from playful and robust to relaxed and quiet. Canada had begun nodding off to sleep, having already consumed enough alcohol to kill a large elk, and the others were sinking lazily down in to their chairs. England watched Canada tiredly, deciding that it was time to take the poor boy to bed.

"How far are your hotels from here?" France and America looked at each other.

"Quite a ways, actually."

"Yes, mine too."

"Tha's what I figured. Why don't you all just stay here tonight and head home in the morning?" America glanced at Canada and laughed.

"Haha, sure. It doesn't look like Mattie's going anywhere anyway."

England smiled at America and stood, walking over to the sleeping Canadian.

"Mattieu, let me take you to bed."

"Hnnh?" He asked, awakening slowly.

"Come on, get up you big oaf," England chided playfully, guiding the drunken blond from his chair and up the stairs. "You can sleep in the guest room."

Canada and England disappeared up the stairs and France took a slow sip of wine. He swallowed decidedly and set his glass on the table. America watched him, drowsily curious.

"America…"

"Hmm?"

"Do you love him?"

America alerted immediately, eyes growing wide. "W-who?" He asked gracelessly.

"Russia…" France whispered, eyes locked on the younger nation's and burning with intensity. America stared, startled and mesmerized before he replied.

"W-What? Why would you think that? I haven't had anything to do with him beyond an occasional spat since the Cold War," he lied, eyes turning toward the carpet.

"You're lying." America flinched. "You were with him, weren't you? That's where you were… Russia."

"I…I—"

"What happened between you? What did he do to you?"

"N-Nothing. I… He just… He saved me," America whispered, quiet as a secret. France took a deep breath and sighed.

"That's what I thought."

"That was it though… I-I don't have feelings for him or anything. No way in Hell!" France didn't say anything, just watched America carefully. America turned away, ashamed, pretending that he just found a sudden interest in the design on the carpet.

"He loves you, you know." America didn't say anything, just hummed silently, ignoring the nervous warmth, burning hotly in his chest. "He always has… since you were little." America felt his chest tighten painfully. Clearly, this wasn't going to just disappear. He looked to France, ready to say something when France stood. America's mouth sat open, ready to start and finding the words when France interrupted him.

"This isn't something I can help you with, Alfred. You have to figure it out for yourself. Do you love him?" He turned around, taking the empty bottle of wine and his glass with him to the kitchen and placing both the bottle and the glass in the sink. America heard the water run, his mouth still hanging open with a question he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.


	12. Chapter 12

Narrator:

When England returned from showing Canada to his bed, France and America were nowhere to be found. He searched the kitchen and living room and the upstairs bedrooms, to no avail. He was just starting to wonder where they had gone when he noticed that their shoes had disappeared with them. He looked around, wondering why they would leave without any notice, seeing the glasses washed in the sink and the bottles in the recycling. His brow furrowed in confusion and he inhaled deeply. He smelled the usual odor of his house along with the scent of his guest and their drinks, but also something else. Smoke.

He opened the front door curiously, and upon doing so he saw his missing guests, staring somberly out at the front lawn, smoking deeply. Each had a lit cigarette, glowing brightly in the night. The scent was as strong and heavy as the silence. He stood in the doorway watching for a moment until France noticed him. He smiled half-heatedly and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering them to the Brit. England accepted, a little reluctantly, now forced to join in the heavy atmosphere of the gathering. He held the cigarette between his fingers, rolling it slowly between them and enjoying the familiar feel. France put the cigarettes back and offered him a light. With the cigarette between his lips, England leaned in, puffing softly to get it burning. The tip grew black in the glow and then caught red, burning as a small speck of red light. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs, feeling its scratchy warmth inside him. The smoke was thick and strong, and the cigarette was good. He exhaled slowly, his eyes closed in silent concentration. France watched him and smiled softly, touching him gently on the shoulder. They turned back to the yard, leaning gently against the porch railing. England was the first to break the silence.

"You heading home, America?" He was silent for a moment, his eyes cast downward.

"Yeah…"

"I figured."

"Hmm." They fell silent yet again.

"…when's your cab coming?"

"He called while you were upstairs, so it should be here pretty soon," France replied for the American who was lost in thought.

"Oh. Yeah. It'll be here soon," America added, brought back to attention after a moment's pause.

"…well, it was nice seeing you."

"Nice seeing you guys too, England. It was real nice…." The men fell silent yet again as the sound of tires scraped down the street, finally stopping in front of them. America inhaled deeply for a final time, lifting his left foot and rubbing out the nub on his heel. He put it in his pocket and walked toward the cab, the other two trailing him. He turned to France and smiled, his eyes still focusing on something far away.

"Thanks, France. I…" He stopped, unsure of what he wanted to say. "…Treat England well, he can be pretty temperamental," He smiled his winning smile. England looked away, embarrassed and refusing to catch the younger man's eyes.

"Hey…." He fought back weakly, completely unprepared for the jest and focused on other things.

"See you later, old man," Alfred smiled affectionately and climbed in to the cab. He gave his directions to the driver and they drove away slowly, but not before Alfred saw France touch England's arm affectionately and guide him back inside. America's eyes softened for a moment, but soon hazed over as he stared out the window, not really seeing anything at all.

America:

On my way back to the hotel, I called my nation's authorities, explaining my plans to a very frustrated official who seemed quite tired of treating me as a human. There's a strange line separating myself and my country, but it is much more difficult to control me than it is my land. My land can be toiled, and houses build on steady bedrock, but unlike the dirt and earth which make the physical boundaries of my country, I live like the spirit of my people. We are strong, individualistic, capable and proud, much to the ironic chagrin of my country's administration. Regardless, I got as I wanted, and my flight home was scheduled on a public plane early the following morning. I didn't care to waste time bringing a private military jet to bring me home; I was ready to be drinking _my _beer, and sitting on _my_ sofa as soon as humanly possible. I could care less about formalities at this moment.

The flight was planned and I was driving back to my room to gather my things, soon to be at the airport and heading home. Everything was going well enough until I saw a large figure, wobbling down the street with a drunken gait. I was only two blocks from the room and a flight away from my beloved home when I stupidly called to the driver.

"Wait!" He slowed the cab quickly, used to unexpected stops. He waited patiently as I stared for a moment, my heart making decisions without my mind. I steeled my resolve for just a moment before digging in my pocket for a wad of twenties. I handed them over the front where he had been waiting, expecting this action I could barely fathom and preparing to expertly count out the change.

"Just keep it," I said, climbing out of the car with my heart racing. The plan, or lack thereof, became more and more ridiculous as my heart explained it to my mind, but as I stood, staring at the place on the road where the cab once sat, I was committed.


	13. Chapter 13

Narrator:

Alfred's heart raced with every inch he moved closer to the lumbering man. It thundered deep inside of him, like the foreboding drums of war telling of the enemy rushing toward you, armed and ready for death. And with each step, this enemy did seem to rush all too quickly toward him and before he had even fully committed himself to speaking with the man, he was standing next to him smelling the alcohol from his labored breaths. He walked beside him for a couple moments, unsteady and nervous, legs twitching and ready to run. His body was hot and cold at once and he was sweaty and clammy. The eyes of the world had no effect on America as compared to a sideways glace from this drunken Russian. His inner monologue whirled noisily, fast and cluttered but without anything significant to prove it. He walked silently, until Russia's drastically slowed reactions finally caught up.

"Ahhhh, Добрый вечер, Amerika," the Russian slurred.

"Hello, Russia." Russia staggered awkwardly forward as if he was wearing only one very high heel. America looked around hoping to find something besides this ridiculous man to focus on, but his efforts were in vain. He had focused on nothing else for months. America scanned the streets curiously.

"What are you doing out here, Russia?"

"Ahh, it is, errr… how do you say… interesting story, yes? I was drinking at bar when suddenly, I was here… heading somewhere…" America couldn't help but cringe at the Russian's slurring of broken English. He was inebriated to the point that his own language was becoming quite a challenge, let alone another nation's.

"Where were you headed?" Russia stopped and looked at America seriously, with a startling sobriety. He watched him for a moment and then turned away drunkenly again, stepping off of the sidewalk and then stumbling back on, each step taking absolute and utter concentration.

"Tha's a good question, Amerika. A veerry good question," he looked around, mildly suspicious.

"God, where is Toris? This is usually his department," America muttered. "Where's your hotel?" Russia stopped again, his hand caressing his chin in deep thought.

"It used to be that way," he threw his hand arbitrarily to his left, "but now, I'm not so sure…"

_Well, that settles it with a nice little bow, now doesn't it. _"Alright, well, my hotel's only another block away, we'll go there and sober you up a bit."

"Your hotel…" Russia mumbled, thinking to himself. "I think I was headed there…"

"To my hotel? Why?" Russia ignored the question and focused his efforts on walking while he pulled a flask out from his coat. America caught to movement in his peripheral vision and snatched the container from the Russian's lips. Russia looked startled.

"That is mine, Amerika."

"Yes, it is Russia. But I'm not going to deal with you any drunker than you already are." Russia glared defiantly, dark purple eyes gleaming with malice before shifting instantly to a disturbingly childish smile.

"I will have it back from you." He promised, and America sighed. America, despite his own slightly inebriated state, decided that a heavy drink from the flask was absolutely necessary given the situation. He drank heavily and pulled the flask away from his mouth with a slightly satisfied sigh, as he twisted the cap back on and tucked it into his inside coat pocket. His hotel had just come in to sight and he was anxious to have the Russian in his apartment and sobered as quickly as he could; just being near the man set him in a vicious whirlpool of emotions. He guided the large man as best as he could past the lobby, avoiding the curious and patronizing stares. They rode the elevator in silence to the third floor where America pulled his keycard from his wallet and opened the electronic lock. He opened the door with a twist and pushed it open completely, allowing the other man to shuffle-step his way through.

America pointed to the hotel bed. "Sit." Russia smiled threateningly, but complied. With repeated glances to assure that the Russian had not moved, America made a pot of complimentary instant coffee and poured it in to two Styrofoam cups. He handed one to the Russian and fell unceremoniously in to the sitting position on the bed beside him.

"Drink." Russia watched the liquid for a moment before turning to America.

"If I may have a little bit from my flask…" The other sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose impatiently.

"Now. _Please._" Russia complied with a pout, grimacing as he swallowed the unwanted substance the hotel claimed was 'coffee'. They drank silently for a moment, sobering only slightly.

"Why are you here, Russia?" He stared blankly.

"…if I remember correctly, you brought me here…"

"Yes. No, I mean, where were you going at this hour as drunk as you are?"

"I am not drunk." America let it drop with another deep sigh.

"Alright." They fell silent again, focusing on their drinks.

"….Hey, Russia?"

"Mmm?"

"Why did you kiss me?" He mumbled stupidly. "I mean… You knew I hated you, and yet you still…" Russia just smiled in response.

"Hated," he stared at his lap with his smile. He turned to Alfred and repeated himself, "Hated." America's heart beat sporadically in his chest, stopping for a moment and then fluttering. He looked down at his lap as well.

"Hat_ed?_" He asked his thighs. _Yes, hated, _they replied.


	14. Chapter 14

America:

If I had seen myself two months prior, sitting as I am now next to Russia, I think I would have allowed myself to die. If I had known what was going through my mind as I sat next to him, I probably would have done the job myself. I may have hated Russia more than anything in the world, but now there was one thing I hated more, and that was the part of me, wishing furiously that he was just a little bit closer. I leaned forward and stood, checking his cup for any coffee before taking it from him and placing it on the table next to the coffee maker.

"Hey Amerika?"

"Yeah?" I called from the kitchenette.

"Why did you hate me?" He stared up at me, eyes somber and serious. I watched him there for a moment before I walked over and sat beside him again.

"I _do _because you're sick."

"I have not been ill…"

"No, I mean sick, as in sick in the head. You're insane." Russia's brow furrowed in thought.

"Perhaps," he started, "but if you do not hate me now, does that no longer matter?"

"I still do… and I… I don't know." He replied quietly, more to himself than to the other.

"Does my mental state matter?"

"…O-Of course it does."

"How does it matter?" I stood, frustrated and indignant.

"You've done so many horrible things… your people… and the Jews… God, and Stalin! …So many deaths under sick and twisted regimes... Just how many people have you killed?"

"I don't know, Amerika. How many have you?"

"…I don't know."

"Do you remember every horrible act which happened on your soil?"

"No… No, I don't."

"It'd hurt too badly if you did. You'd never be able to live with yourself, even though, you had nothing to do with them. All of those horrible things… we'll never know whether they reflect on your dark inner thoughts. We are the physical manifestations of our people, so their crimes… are they ours, or are they just lost somewhere along the equation?"

"I never would have…" America thought aloud, eyes clouded with memories of darker times.

"No… Neither would I," Russia agreed, shoulders slumped.

"How much of it… was you? How much of it reflects who you are?"

"I'd ask the same of you."

"I don't know…"

"Me neither." They stared blankly ahead of them, thinking in silence.

"Hey, Amerika? Does it matter if I'm sick?"

"No… I don't know."

"Me neither," he smiled apologetically at America. "Well, I think I've sobered up enough to find my way home. I apologize for the burden," Russia said, as if preparing to stand and leave, but he failed to find the strength.

"Yeah… see you later." America replied dumbly to the Russian still seated firmly next to him. They sat silent and still for what seemed like hours, both thinking deeply. Around the same time that the sun began to color the horizon, America dozed off, feeling mentally and emotionally exhausted from his long day.

He slumped over silently, his head falling on the taller man's upper arm, sleeping soundly despite his uncomfortable position. Russia smiled at the sleeping man, touching his cheek affectionately before guiding him in to bed. America was awakened by the movement, but Russia's suggestion seemed brilliant in his half-asleep state. He crawled in to bed and nested himself under the covers, instantly snoring softly with contentment.

Russia settled the covers around him, sitting quietly on the side of the bed for a couple of moments before reaching back under the covers into America's coat. He pulled out his flask with an accomplished smile and settled the blankets back around the sleeping man. He turned away, still sitting on the edge of the bed and took a deep drink of the vodka left inside. His large hand nestled itself in America's blonde hair and ruffled it softly.

"Спокойной ночи и спать спокойно," he whispered in the younger nation's ear, brushing his lips softly against it as he spoke. He stood committed to leaving, and walked out the door, sliding the flask into his coat pocket. He closed the door carefully behind him to avoid awakening America and walked down the hall, feeling lighter and heavier than he ever had. He was unsure of exactly what he wanted from the vivacious young nation, but he knew that whatever it was, he was a step closer to it.

"M-Mr. Russia! There you are," Lithuania greeted him at the hotel lobby.

"Yes, here I am. But what are you doing here?" He glared harshly at the smaller nation. Lithuania cowered under his glare.

"I-I just… You left your room, and you were so drunk so I figured…"

"You figured what? That I'd come to his room and rape him in his sleep, or just go ahead and kill him so I could bath in his youthful blood?"

"I-I don't… I mean…"

"Sorry Liet, I know. I just… not now."

"I'm still happy to see you, Mr. Russia. Your borders were closed for so long and I… I missed you" Lithuania finished, speaking in the general direction of the Russian who had long since started walking away. He strode to catch up.

"M-Mr. Russia?"

"Does it matter that I'm insane?" Lithuania paused to look at him for a moment.

"Not to me, Russia. I've seen you at your worst, and after everything you've done to me, I still… still want you," his eyes smoldered as Russia stopped to look at the other nation. Russia felt his stomach coil with an emotion he couldn't express. Lithuania looked at him, desperately seductive and begging him closer.

"Is that so…"

**CLIFFHANGERRRRR Feel free to kill me now. **

**Thanks a lot to everyone who is reading and reviewing my stories! I always love comments. _ALWAYSSSSssssss_**

**All creepiness aside, I hope you're all enjoying my story. I'd love to hear any suggestions, comments, or questions. _  
_**


	15. Chapter 15

The two men walked back to their hotel in an uncomfortable silence. Lithuania would speak to the Russian excitedly in hopes of gaining his attention, but the man was lost in thought, humming slightly to acknowledge the other's words without ever actually hearing them. Lithuania slumped slightly after a couple failed attempts as his legs strode as quickly as they could, aching with strain from trying to match the other's pace without jogging. They walked the last couple blocks in complete silence, Lithuania plotting another attempt to gather the other man's attention while Russia walked, his manic violet eyes trained straight ahead of him. They reached the hotel soon after and Lithuania strode ahead to grab the door and open it before the Russian was forced to break stride.

Unlike the other nations, Russia always chose the cheapest hotel nearby, not to be miserly, but because he enjoyed the relaxed, impersonal atmosphere. There is much attention paid to those in fancy hotels: _Sir, would you care for room service? Is your room accommodating enough? _But workers in the cheaper hotels are far less interested in you due to both your and their lack of apparent wealth. No one spoke in rushed tones to avoid awakening the people in the room next door and house cleaning never knocked, let alone visited, even if you begged. Yes, here Russia could relax. Not a soul would worry about the man screaming to himself at four in the morning-people minded their own business out of apathy and self-preservation.

Lithuania unlocked the door for Russia with his spare key and attempted to push it open but it was stuck. The frame had been built catawampus, so the top of the door would stick, only to be forced open. Russia obliged, shoving it open and walked inside, taking his key from Lithuania's hand and casually slamming the door behind him… in Lithuania's face.

"Mr. Russia?" Russia looked out the missing peephole playfully, his eye apparent from the other side of the hole.

"Who is it~?" He sang.

"Uhmm… it's me. You left me outside…"

"Hmm… I did. But if I remember correctly, your room is next door…"

"It is… B-But sir, I was hoping… Would you mind if I came in for a while?"

"That kind of defeats the purpose of getting you your own room, doesn't it?"

"…yes, I suppose…" Lithuania muttered sadly in defeat. Russia chuckled to himself, his smile never quite reaching his eyes, and opened the door.

"Come on, now." Lithuania stepped excitedly into the filthy room, closing the door behind him as Russia walked over to his mysteriously stained bed and flopped down, spread eagle. The bed creaked loudly in complaint at the large man who suddenly thrust himself upon it, but the man paid it no attention, closing his eyes. Lithuania stared awkwardly for a moment, his palms sweating. He stepped reluctantly toward the bed, staring down at Russia expectantly before seating himself delicately on the edge. The bed tipped precariously. Lithuania continued to stare at Russia until he turned his head toward him, one eye peeking open slightly.

"Did you come here to stare at me?" The brown-haired man flushed, turning to face the yellowing floral wallpaper.

"N-No."

"I could still get to sleep, I suppose, but I hardly see the value." Lithuania gave him a meaningful look, his eyes roaming across the larger man's form. Russia followed his gaze, glancing up at Lithuania with an eyebrow raised. "May I help you?" he asked, slightly losing his patience with the other man.

Lithuania's eyes bore into his own as his hand moved toward the larger man's back. His blue eyes sparkled with fear and excitement, adrenaline and arousal rushing through his body. Russia made no move to stop him, expecting the other man to retract himself and leave at any moment. Lithuania pushed further. His fingers trembled violently as they moved slowly down the Russian's back, slowing with reluctance before reaching the curve of the Russian's butt.

He forced himself further, not expecting another chance as Russia watched him with a growing intensity. Lithuania wrapped his hand around the larger man's hip bone, nudging it slightly to encourage him to roll over. Russia complied, his eyes completely focused on the other man's face which had turned to stare at his body. The hand became two as they unbuttoned his large winter jacket, slowly slipping out one button at a time. His breath hitched once he reached the buttons across Russia's crotch, but he pushed onward, his face flushed and his breathing heavy. His hands snaked nervously into the large man's jacket and gently pushed them apart, hands careful as a surgeon's, cutting away the skin to reveal what lie beneath.

His eyes explored the other man's chest, muscles apparent through the thin white fabric of his undershirt. Russia's chest rose gently with every breath, and Lithuania placed his palm upon it to feel the movement. The skin underneath radiated warmth and he could feel the beating of the other's heart, quickened with excitement. Russia slowly slipped his jacket the rest of the way off of his shoulders and let it lie beneath him as Lithuania grabbed the hem of his shirt, raising it slowly. Russia removed the shirt the rest of the way after Liet had raised it to his armpits. He stared down in excited wonder, his hands running cold circles around the man's pectorals leaving goose bumps where he touched. He leaned forward slowly, his breaths tickling the other's chest, warm and wet until something even warmer wrapped around a nipple. Russia's eyes softened slightly, his hips shifting subconsciously as Lithuania sucked gently on the nub. His ministrations continued, becoming increasingly bold, soon licking and even biting the tender skin. Russia reacted by weaving his fingers into the smaller man's dark hair and pulling back.

"You know I won't be gentle…" Russia growled, his voice deep with arousal. Lithuania stared up, his eyes darkened with determination.

"I know." He said confidently. "I wouldn't have it any other way, _Mr. Russia_."


	16. Chapter 16

Lithuania:

Familiar large hands knotted themselves in my hair and pulled me down onto him, his body warm and hard beneath me. I could feel his hipbones press painfully into mine, and it was apparent that he had lost weight, worrying as he has been. None of that mattered though. I didn't care who he wanted to be with or when, so long as he does this to me.

His teeth bit harshly into my shoulder as he slipped off the torn remains of my shirt. I could feel the sickening give of my skin to his teeth and the burning of blood escaping the wound. He licked it, his tongue lapping at it curiously, enjoying the taste and sensation, rather than comforting me. He has never been kind to me, quite the opposite. But if he had been kind to me, I wouldn't be here beneath him, subjecting myself to his unnecessary roughness. His teeth, his bruises, his scratches and scars… that's why I'm here, begging for his attention.

Russia:

Everyone knows how I have abused Toris, but nobody knows how he drives me to do it. He begs me to hurt him with his pathetic wide eyes. He wants the violence and insanity I harbor, and his attentions have nothing to do with me. I'll never ask why he wants me like this, but when he pleads me to be rough with him-I can only let the darkness free. It is this darkness now tearing apart his skin with my teeth, leaving bruises and swelling red bites. I'm somewhere lost along the way. He uses me like this, plays at the weaknesses inside of me to achieve whatever he gets from this torture. I can feel my hands, wrapping around his throat to leave the long thin bruises of my fingers, but inside, I feel nothing.

Russia lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his hair and clothing unkempt. It wasn't the water damage or the peeling stucco which entertained his thoughts, however. Russia's mind was relatively blank, his thoughts vague and unfeeling as Lithuania carefully slipped on his clothes. His white undershirt was clean and unstained until he pulled it back over his shoulders. The blood soaked in quickly and he felt his muscles tighten, relaxing to the new pain. He carefully slid his collared shirt back over his shoulders, careful not to slide it across his raw skin. His shoes were toed on and tied slowly in the silence of the room-neither of the men had said a word. The shoe took a tentative step toward the door before stopping. Without turning around, Lithuania addressed the other man.

"Russia…" he started, quiet and uncertain.

"Are you listening, Russia?" Russia blinked noncommittally in response. "He… He's too good for you." Lithuania had the Russian's attention and the bed creaked loudly signifying to the other man that Russia had sat up and turned to face him. He flinched, but refused to move from his spot, back still facing the other man. "Y-You… You don't d-deserve him." Russia stood and walked toward the offending man, breathing heavily down upon his shoulders.

"And why's that, _Toris_?" He asked quietly, his voice wavering softly.

"He'll never accept the things you've done… how twisted you are. People like us…" Lithuania fell silent, his eyes watching his feet for a moment before he could compose himself to finish. "Broken people like us…we never get the girl." He laughed pityingly to himself.

"You're wrong, Lithuania. This time, you're wrong. "

Lithuania shrugged his shoulders in response, opening the door to leave. Russia reached around into his pants pocket, grabbing the room key from it. Lithuania turned to face him, eyes wide with confusion.

"Find somewhere else to stay. I don't want to see your face for a while."

His heart twisted with the rejection but he just laughed again. "If that's what you want. Maybe I'll even stay somewhere decent," he stepped out, slamming the door behind him. He walked down the hall, heart heavy with emotion, to the only place he knew he could stay without contacting his nation for clearance.

UGHHH THIS CHAPTER! I FRIGGIN' SWEAR IT'LL BE THE DEATH OF ME! I've rewritten this bad boy about three times now and I'm still not sure if I like it. Tell me what you guys think. If you absolutely hate it I might try posting another version of it instead.


	17. Chapter 17

The knocks were timid, as they hesitantly tapped at the wooden surface. Steady, and uneven, they ticked in a quiet contrast to the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping inhabitant. Eyes blinked blurrily, sleep still hanging over them in a blinding film as thoughts began to tumble around, slowly at first, and then faster. America sat up quickly, his feet falling heavily across the carpet, too tired to take care for the people sleeping downstairs. He opened the door, still half asleep until he noticed the man before him.

"T-Toris? God dude, don't you know it's like… God, I don't even know what time it is…" He said, looking around blearily.

"Sorry, America. I didn't think I'd be back here tonight," he laughed awkwardly.

"It's cool, I guess… Wait? Back?" Lithuania tensed slightly, realizing what he had said.

"Uh, yeah I was here… earlier... for Mr. Russia," He winced slightly on reflex at the name. The movement caught the American's attention and he eyed the smaller man carefully. A couple of buttons were missing from his shirt, his hair was a wreck, and he had hickeys and bite marks around his collar, dipping down beneath it to where America's eyes couldn't reach, but could thoroughly imagine.

"Did you find him?" He whispered.

"Yeah…" The men watched carefully, gauging the other's reaction. America's eyes had become unfocused, thoughts far away leaving the pathetic figure alone standing in his door way. The small man cleared his throat.

"Uhm… America?" America's eyes narrowed to attention.

"Oh, yeah. Come on in," He motioned to his room, opening the door wide for the other and taking a step back. "Lemmie just grab the spare pillow from the closet," he said as he wandered to the far end of the room. Lithuania shifted awkwardly, looking around the room and noticing two empty Styrofoam cups and the half-empty pot in the coffee maker.

"Found it!" A pillow flew from the closet and fell on to the bed with a puff. America closed the door and grabbed his own pillow from the bed, making his way for the couch.

"Hey, America… I can't take your—"

"Shut up, Toris," the American laughed kindly. "You look like you've had a pretty exciting night yourself."

Lithuania blushed heavily, feeling horribly guilty for being in the room at all, let alone taking the other man's bed. He knew it was unfair to come as he had and his hair fell over his eyes in shame. He only came here because he didn't want to deal with Estonia and Latvia's apologetic eyes—the eyes which saw his bruises and bite marks and refused to look him in the face. _That was it, right?_

" _Stop lying to me, Liet. It's not like I'm completely retarded! Why are you still seeing him?"_

"_P-Poland, I wasn't…" His green eyes shone, distanced and aloof with a bitter playfulness._

"_Whatever, Liet," he turned to leave but sighed instead, "I love you, Lietuva. And… And even if it takes like, another forever, I'm still waiting for an answer. I know things are super hard right now, but I can help… I want to help…" His green eyes met mine with a penetrating severity and all I could do was look away, suffocating in their kindness. _

"Are you okay?" a deep voice questioned in the small man's ear, ripping him away from his thoughts.

"Yeah, I was just thinking…"

"Anything you need help with?"

"No, no…" He stood still as America shifted his weight between his feet, more than ready to go back to sleep. He glanced at the bed and back at Lithuania.

"I can't take your bed. Let me take the couch, this is your hotel and it's my fault that I got kicked out of my room anyway, and—"

"Toris?"

"Yeah?"

"Accept a little kindness once in a while. God, you're almost as bad as my old man England," he laughed. And Lithuania looked sheepish again but walked toward the bed, pulling back the sheets.

"Thanks again, America."

"Yeah, no problem."

America's mind was in turmoil as he lay on the couch. It was hours after Lithuania had arrived and although the man was sleeping soundly, sleep was far from the American's thoughts. He had just spoken with Russia hours before… _Why would he do something… No, that wasn't right to say. What happened between them? _Visions flashed in his head of clothes discarded haphazardly about a floor, a long winter coat thrown thoughtlessly off. He imagined a large pale body covering the smaller man as they rutted in to each other. Platinum blonde hair fell casually over the writhing man's shoulder as he bit down…

America's clothing started to feel restricting and a painful tightness pulled him away from his thoughts. His body was hot, itching under his shirt and he turned over, trying to ignore his arousal, but the throbbing in his groin refused to let it go. He looked up to find Lithuania sleeping comfortably in the bed as the sun began to peak into the window. Realizing that sleep was now lost to him, he stood, grabbing a towel from the rack outside the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He turned the water on as cold as it would go and stepped in, gritting his teeth against the shock.


	18. Chapter 18

**DESPITE PREVIOUS CONCEPTIONS, I am alive. I'll admit, I might have been in a bit of a slump due to summer break and a very social boyfriend, but I am back now. College and work will keep his visiting at bay, and give me enough time to write. I.e. enough time to write at four in the morning as I am avoiding a huge assignment... but who's keeping track? Hopefully no one, because that would be creepy... YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Annnnyway, I'll tone down the crazy for a second and tell you that I'm back to writing and I've got a lot of things planned. I hope you all like it! **

**I'll harass my cat one minute less a week for every review I get!  
**

By the time America had gotten out of the shower, Lithuania was nowhere to be found. The only things which remained from his visit were a note scribbled on a complimentary notepad and a freshly brewed pot of coffee, just how America liked it… or as close as one could get from hotel instant. Even the bed which America would have opted to leave in absolute disarray was in perfect condition. America walked over to the coffee table where the note sat and picked it up with one hand while grabbing the pot of coffee in the other, absentmindedly pouring himself a cup.

_Mr. America,_

_ Thank you immensely for allowing me to stay. I'm sorry for the intrusion and any trouble I may have caused you. I hope to repay your hospitality in the near future. __Before I go, I just want to warn you You really shouldn't Russia isn't_

_ Thanks again, and please, __**be careful**__._

_-Lithuania_

America reread the note a couple times, forgetting his coffee in lieu of "reading between the lines". The other nations had repeatedly scoffed at America for not reading the atmosphere, but the atmosphere surrounding the note was near palpable. There was something weird going on between Lithuania and Russia, and it wasn't even the usually 'Russia's a psycho' weird. He wondered why Lithuania would try to warn him about Russia, especially now of all times. Russia was no more abnormally psycho than usual. The only thing that had change was… well, the incarceration, if you will. There was no way that Lithuania could have known anything about that…with any kind of certainty. He leaned back on the couch, flipping the TV on to mindless dribble as the thought.

One show became four, and soon America was bored of sitting still. He didn't technically have a ride home and his nation had been kind enough to give him some space for the last day or so. He would have to check in eventually so the military didn't mark him down as MIA again. He sighed and picked up the hotel phone, calling one of the many secure lines wired for him and him alone. The man on the other line said nothing as he was trained to do, waiting for America to identify himself.

"Yeah, yeah. It's me."

"Good morning, sir. May I schedule you a flight home?" America smiled at the man's politeness and figured he'd give the poor guy a break.

"Sure thing. Give me another week here and then send me back on whatever's heading the right direction."

"We will send over a secure jet for your transport."

"Don't bother. I'd probably survive a crash anyway. Just send me home on something easy… unless you've got a WWII fighter lying around…"

"That is an unacceptable transport, sir."

"Damnit… I was allowed to fly them in the war…" He grumbled more to himself than to the agent.

"Indeed you were, but with all due respect, reports state that you forcefully removed a German pilot to get in to the airplane."

"I did, didn't I? AhAhaha, only good part of the war!"

"Yes. The only good part." America appreciated the man's sincerity in saying so. The man was too young to have lived through WWII, but he seemed to understand that it felt like just yesterday to the young nation. Hell, the Civil War felt like just yesterday…

"You're a good agent. I'll be at the London airport at four, one week from today."

"Roger that, sir. And thank you… it's not every day that you get a compliment from the nation you serve."

America hung up the phone with a faint smile. He would stay in London for a week. He may have been anxious to get home, but now it seemed more important to figure out what was going on with Lithuania. There was to be a conference for the Eastern European nations after the World Meeting so the nations could avoid traveling unnecessarily. The fact that Russia was staying never crossed America's mind. Not once… But while he was thinking of Russia, he came to the sudden realization that he was currently dead broke in London for the next week without even a change of clothes or a hamburger. Foresight was never his strong suit…

The phone rang four times before America started reconsidering his calling plan. He definitely didn't want to call his agents again if he didn't have to, especially considering the fact that the commanding officers were probably seething by now at his decision to stay. Anything beat the interrogation they would give him… He shuddered to himself and was about to hang up and rethink his plans when a half-conscious Russian answered the phone.

"Ngghhph?"

"Hey, commie. I saved your drunk ass from getting hit by a car last night. You owe me one."

Russia was quiet for a moment before making an amused grunt. "I owe you a what?"

"No, no. You owe me one. As in, I'm calling in a favor."

"A favor?" America thought of the significant irony in all of this, but decided that didn't matter now.

"Yeah. You're buying me lunch."

"I'm taking you out for lunch?"

"No. Just buying it. I don't care whether you eat or not. I want burgers." Russia laughed in the phone, seemingly quite pleased with himself. "Shut up and meet me." America snapped.

"Sure thing, Amerika. I will be at your hotel shortly."

"Why my hotel? …y'know what? I don't care. Yay, burgers…" He said, quickly becoming increasingly distracted by the thought of his next meal as he hung up the phone. America's stomach was growling angrily. He would have to find a way to get clothes eventually, but he needed food now.


	19. Chapter 19

America turned back to the television sipping his now cold coffee as he waited for the Russian to arrive. He sighed and shifted uncomfortably after a couple minutes had passed. When he had made the phone call he was pretty hungry, but now he was starting to feel really uncomfortable. After months of starving his body wasn't exactly feeling fond of missing even one meal, let alone the series that America already had. He placed his hand on his stomach as it rumbled and just as it did, a knock tapped through the door. America felt his heart race excitedly and he jumped out of bed, slipped on his shoes, and then opened the door. Russia was met by a disheveled man who had clearly been wearing the same suit the day before. It was wrinkled as though the man had slept in it as well and he hadn't even bothered to tuck his shirt back in or straighten the collar. He felt a little sick to his stomach seeing how pale and sallow the blonde still looked and worried about the dark bags under his eyes.

America shifted from foot to foot anxiously as he closed the hotel door behind him. With his stomach still aching he started to walk down the hall, turning back in confusion when he noticed the Russian wasn't following him.

"Hey, Commie? You coming?"

Russia was silent for a moment before he began processing what the American had said. "Ah, yes."

"Spaz," America muttered without any bite. "Come on Russia, hurry it up! I'm starving over here!" Russia's expression grew dark for a moment.

"You nearly starved to death without concern, but you are making a fuss over being late to one meal?" America's stomach grumbled loudly in protest which the man tried to silence with a hand.

Seeing America's blush, Russia started to understand. "When did you last eat?"

"Hahaha, first I'm too fat and now you're worrying about me eating enough? Way to be bipolar…" Russia gave him a pointed stare.

"I haven't worried about you being too fat for a while, Amerika. Something tells me you aren't exactly here with provisions." The American ignored him as they stepped into the elevator and rode to the bottom floor. The doors opened and Russia realized that America intended to ignore the question completely. _Oh well, _he would squeeze it out of him eventually. They stepped out in to the streets of London, looking for which direction they should head.

"Do you have any idea where one of these 'restaurants' you're so fond of may be?"

"Not off the top of my head, but I'm sure I could figure it out." America sniffed the air tentatively and then started off to the west.

"What are you a pointer?"

"Oh, shut it," America snapped rolling his eyes as they walked. "It shouldn't be too far, maybe a couple more blocks."

They walked the rest of the way in silence as America concentrated on where he was going and Russia wondered how the hell the other man could smell a fast food joint from a half mile away. Sure, the places reeked of inedible messes of lard, but _still!_ He'd be owing Prussia twenty bucks on this one... Who would have thought the prankster German would have been telling the truth?

As soon as the yellow double arch was in view, America's pace easily doubled. The symbol relaxed him immensely, reminding him of his home country and people. He opened the door and strode to the counter with upmost confidence as the Russian lulled uncomfortably by the entrance. Without pausing to look at the menu he caught eyes with a cashier and smiled playfully. She raised an eyebrow curiously, questioning the man's sanity before he asked, "Are you ready?"

"Uhmm… yes?"

"Excellent! Well in that case, I'll take five double cheese burgers, three orders of large fries, two apple pies, a large soda, and a large cup of coffee." She stared at the cash register shocked for a moment before looking sheepishly back at the foreigner.

"D'ja think you could repeat that, sir?" America looked disappointed for a moment before starting again.

"Yeah, no problem." He repeated himself slowly this time allowing the woman to press the necessary buttons before he moved on. When she finally finished he waved Russia over to pay the bill.

"W-Will that be all for you?" She asked, slightly worried.

"Yeah, thanks." America whistled to himself and patted his hands to entertain himself as the bill was paid. He walked contentedly to the next counter as Russia followed him silently.

"Who all do you intend to feed with that?" America rolled his eyes.

"Just me," he smiled to himself as the other man looked at him in disgust. The disgust on his face only increased as the bags were handed out. He could see the spots where the grease had turned the cheap paper translucent and shuddered. They walked over to a table and America plopped down with the first bag already open and Russia stared at the seats apprehensively. The British had done little to improve either the quality of the food (no surprise there) or the cleanliness of the American restaurant chain. He sighed in submission taking a mental note to have Estonia wash his coat when he got home. Blood was one thing, but this was nauseating.


	20. Chapter 20

After watching America shove the third burger down his throat Russia coughed awkwardly.

"Hgnnmph?" The man articulated as a response.

"Is it just me or are you stuck in Europe?" America's face brightened with over exaggerated sincerity.

"Me? Naw, I'm leaving real' soon..."

"Yes? And when would that be?" America looked at the other man suspiciously.

"What's it matter to you?" He asked before taking a large bite of his fourth massive burger, the suspicion never leaving his eyes.

"It matters to me because I am starting to think that you are here without any money," he eyed the other man carefully. "Or even a change of clothes..." America's cheeks dusted with pink.

"What? Why would you think that?"

"Because you haven't changed clothes since you arrived."

"Pshh, what are you, stalking me?"

"Of course not…"

"Then I just have a couple of the exact same type of suit. No worries."

"Your suit is still wrinkled from sleeping in it."

"True, but maybe I-"

"Save it, Amerika. What are you doing here and why haven't you had any money forwarded to you?" America sighed, knowing the game was up.

"That's a tough one. See, I'm staying here to help a friend, and I haven't had any money forwarded to me because my nation thinks that I was missing in action. They probably have their suspicions that I took the opportunity to escape to a beach town or something like that. I'd rather they think I was a bit of a deadbeat than know the truth."

"And what is the truth?" America paused in his eating long enough to set his burger back in its wrapper on the table. "What happened to you?" The question felt heavy as it fell from the Russians tongue, but wanted to understand. What could have caused the happy-go-lucky nation to break? ..the very same nation which had secretly terrified him during the Cold War, and still sometimes terrified him today… Could the world's super power really have been crushed so completely by the destruction of other nations? Most global powers in his position would be secretly reveling in the opportunity to rule. The powerful nation's face contorted in pain and a darkness hid his usual sunny persona.

"Russia… The world was dying. We were so close to the brink and there was nothing I could do. What would you expect?" The fairer man looked at him with an emotionless curiosity.

"To be honest? Considering your position, you should have been seizing the opportunity. You could have ruled the world with everyone else out of the way." America looked down at his food feeling sick to his stomach.

"Is that what you would have done?"

"Yes." America's eyelashes flicked upward and the Russian was met with burning cobalt.

"What's so special about ruling people? What good is being a nation if you have to subjugate your own people?" Russia felt his chest tighten with a heat he could not identify. It felt like anger but there was something else. He imagined his lips silencing the furious man before him. The man might be babbling and furious at the moment, but something about the bubble-headed blonde practically shouting out political sentiments for the security of his people _turned him on. _It was like the Cold War all over again only this time he didn't have to worry about the American stabbing him whenever he looked away.

"Amerika?" America shut up for a second, glaring angrily for the interruption.

"What?"

"Why did you call me when you needed a meal? There are plenty of other nations who would have fed you." America's mouth shut completely and he turned away from the man in favor of staring at the table, the wall… anything but him.

"Well, you see… I was figuring that since I saved your butt the other night you totally owed me!"

"I owed you for saving me? That's not very heroic."

"What? No, it's totally heroic! It wasn't 'cuz you needed to pay me anything, I just figured-"

"That on some level you might enjoy seeing me again despite all the nasty things I had done?"

"No. Lithuania came to my apartment last night-"

"Lithuania was at your place?"

"Yeah, he said you kicked him out and he… he looked a little _worse for wear, _if you will." It was Russia's turn to look away.

"Yes, I would suppose he did…" America's eyes narrowed.

"I figured it was you. What's your problem? Seriously! One second you're jumping me and the next you're molesting poor Toris?"

"That's not fair Amerika."

"How isn't it fair?"

"Lithuania came on to me. Very strongly…"

"What? You want me to believe that shit? He's loved Poland since I can remember."

"Yeah, you're right, he has."

"Then why?"

"We've all got issues. You should be able to understand the stupid things that people do when they're suffering."

"But why is he suffering?"

"If I had to guess, it'd be because he feels as though Poland would never accept him."

"What? Why would he feel that? And how would you know?" Russia just looked at America incredulously and stood to leave.


	21. Chapter 21

Russia and America were silent as they walked out of the McDonald's and started their way back to the younger man's hotel. America stared at the ground pensively for a while before turning to ask Russia a question.

"Hey, Russia?"

"Yes?"

"Does that mean you love me?" Russia looked at him started and thought for a while.

"Yes. I thought I had told you." America's flushed face answered clearly that he had not. "You didn't know?"

"No. I thought you were just being a nutcase as usual."

"Maybe. But I have wanted you for a long time now."

"Wanted? Like _wanted, _wanted?"

"Yes, Amerika. I want to have sex with you." At this the American's face positively glowed.

"I-Is that why you… you fucked me?" Russia looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the turn that the conversation had taken.

"Yes. Yes and no. I was frustrated and angry with you for breaking so easily. I had wanted to do it myself for so long…" America looked nauseated at the sentiment.

"That's not love, that's just grade-A crazy."

"Maybe. But I don't want to damage you anymore."

"Uhmm… thanks?" They walked in silence for a while before America had another thought.

"Wait… How _long_ have you wanted to have sex with me?" Russia looked at the sky pensively. Was it fighting together in WWII? WWI? No, it had been even longer than that.

"I suppose since the first time I saw you."

"What! You met me when I was still a kid!"

"There was something about you even then…" America looked at the other man hoping for a hint of a joke and finding none felt thoroughly scandalized.

"You're sick."

"Hahaha! I'm sick? You should have heard some of the fantasies Englan-MMPH!" America looked at the Russian with wide eyes, his hands covering the other man's mouth. Russia pushed the sun-kissed hands away and smiled. "What was that for?" America shuddered.

"Dear God, we are _not _going there."

"Oh? I thought you liked him…" America looked away feeling his heart fluttering violently in his chest. "I was right, then. You do care for him." Russia looked at America with a mask of forced indifference though it was clear that he was not happy with his suspicions being proven correct.

"I… Well, maybe once, when I was younger. He belongs with France though… I mean, those guys have wanted each other on and off for centuries. I was stupid to think…"

"Did he reject you?"

"No, no. I just never had the courage to ask. I just figured that after the revolution, everything would eventually fall in to place. Obviously, they didn't. At first we drifted apart, but then we were just allies and the line couldn't be crossed." Russia was silent for a moment while they crossed the street before responding.

"I would say that I am sorry, Amerika, but I am not. I can wish you had not suffered, but I cannot wish you had ended up with him."

"No… I guess not…" America silenced for a moment, turning on to the block of his apartment. "Hey Russia?"

"Please call me Ivan."

"Sure, whatever. Why do you love me? I thought you hated me with your 'wanting to destroy me' and all."

"I love you because you are something magnificent and odd. You are lively, and proud, and stubborn, and frankly, the strangest creature I have ever met. I hated you, I did. But even more than I hated you, I have loved you. Even I would be sad in destroying someone I love." America had stopped to look at Russia and stood only a foot away from him, staring into his eyes with a deep expression. Russia noticed the blonde's closeness and took advantage of it, placing his hand lightly on the American's arm and drawing him closer until their lips almost met. America's eyes refocused and he blushed horribly before pulling back as quickly as he could.

"Ahem… well, yeah. This is my hotel…" He said, pointing in the wrong direction.

"That's the street." Russia said, still focused on bringing the man closer.

"Yeah, of course. The street that my hotel's on. I'm going to go… y'know… back to my hotel." He said, now pointing the right direction. He stared at Russia for longer than was completely necessary after that before coughing uncomfortably again and hurrying inside with his head down and his shoulders hunched.

Russia looked after the man after he was long gone, sighing in slight frustration as he walked back to his hotel. He considered grabbing a cab, but somehow, walking didn't seem so bad.


	22. Chapter 22

**It's me again! I've been writing a lot more consistently lately, and I think I'm really starting to get the hang of things. I'm also exploding from tiredness on the inside. It's like a napalm strike right behind my corneas. I think this is what it feels like to be a writer in college! Only reviews and comments can save my corneas from the violent attack... (Desperate much?) It's cool though. Hope you enjoy the story!**

America returned to his hotel room a little out of breath. His head was spinning when he thought about the moment he had almost shared with Russia. He hadn't wanted to pull away… His heart was still beating quickly as he sat down on the edge of his bed. His fingers knotted themselves in his hair and he leaned forward. _God, what have I gotten myself in to this time? _His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on his door and his heart fluttered with excitement. Russia had left, but he couldn't think of anyone else who would be visiting… He threw the door opened excitedly as was met with a very surprised brunette.

"America?"

"Oh, hey. What are you doing back here? You still need a place to stay?"

"No. I found a room at a hotel just down the street. I came here because I wanted to say thanks for your hospitality the other night." America looked down when the smaller man lifted his hands for emphasis, a twelve pack of beer in each.

"Oh, Hell yeah, I could totally go for some of that right now! Come on in." Lithuania stepped into the doorway and America relieved him of the large, heavy boxes with a smile. He walked further into the room as America stopped to place the beer on the coffee table until he turned back with a sheepish smile.

"It was nice seeing you the other night… R-Regardless of the circumstances."

"It was nice seeing you too."

"Think we could drink together tonight? I'll be pretty busy with the Eastern European conference for the next couple of days and after that I leave. I was hoping that maybe we could drink together like we used to."

"That'd be great, man. It's been forever since we got plastered together." America ripped open one of the boxes and handed Lithuania a beer as they both sat down on the couch. The cans opened in sync releasing a dual hiss which made the men smile. Both turned the cans up toward their mouths and drank deeply with a contented sigh.

"So how have you been Mr. America?"

"We're friends Toris, call me Alfred! My nation's been pretty busy with politics and whatnot." He said with a frustrated sigh.

"Haha, you too?" Toris gave him a pitying look. "Good luck with that, by the way. I hear your country's been pretty heated politically of late."

"Always. Good ol' Americans are like that." He said with an undisguised proud grin. "They like to keep things interesting."

"That's for sure…" Toris said, leaning down to drink another sip.

"Are you insulting me, Toris?" Toris spat a little in response.

"What? No, n-no!"

"I'm just messing with you!" American laughed, patting the man on the shoulder. "Relax a little! You always worry way too much." America looked at the other man seriously, his eyes betraying the deeper sentiments he felt.

"Yeah… you're probably right," Lithuania replied, averting his gaze. He was lost in thought for quite a while as the men drank.

The men drank together for hours. At first, the conversation was slow and awkward, but as the night progressed they became comrades riding the drunken dragon. The walls spun and the floor wobbled as they finished off some of the final cans. They giggled freely until the sun started to touch the horizon and the brunette drifted off. America watched the brunette sleep for a while. He lay back in the couch as his head lulled over the top. He had the last half of a can of beer in his hands, pouring down the front of his shirt as his hands fell limp. America laughed at the sight before taking the beer and lifting the other man up, setting him on the bed. He pulled off the man's shoes and unbuttoned his shirt, preparing him for bed and giving his shirt a chance to dry out. He slipped the shirt off of the other man's shoulders before he looked down and saw the man beneath him. Sobriety violently returns to him as he takes in the marred shoulders and arms which were hidden beneath. His body is littered with scars of wars, scars from obvious abuse –burning and whipping- and what America believed where the scars of self-abuse. They ran in short scars across him arms, numbering at least twenty on each arm with more on the left. The scars were white and pink, clearly raised against his skin and America felt himself begin to cry.

He took a deep breath. _This is why we're here. _He looked away clenching his eyes shut and allowing the water in his eyes to pool around his eyelashes. He took a moment to watch the wallpaper for a moment, giving him a second to calm himself with a heavy sigh and settled the man under the covers. He brushed the hair out of his friend's face and looked at him sadly once more before allowing himself to be overcome with determination.

He understood the scars of war and the scars of the abused. Those were scars which lapped at the heart and mind like fire, but the scars caused by oneself demonstrated a rot inside of each which would be much more difficult to heal. The burns of suffering could heal with time after the person was removed from the volatile situation, but people could never be removed from themselves. The internal causes would take decades to change. This was beyond just America's ability. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the face of his dear friend. _Who could help him? _He wondered to himself as his fingers traced a visible scar. Lithuania stirred for a moment with a deep exhale.

"Feliks…" he sighed. _Poland. _


	23. Chapter 23

**To everyone who reviews:**

**I love you. Seriously. Like, marriage and shit. Let's do this. **

The morning came slowly to the sleeping men, as Lithuania slept off the vast amounts of alcohol and America finally slept after hours of ridiculous planning and worry. For some reason, he was completely submersed in a dream where he was fighting giant robots away from the princess Lithuania when he was awakened by frantic shuffling. He rolled over with a groan, his head fuzzy with sleep and one eye blurred open. Before him was the topless Lithuania fighting his shirt off of a hanger in the closet. America's brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to piece together where he was and how this ridiculous situation fit in his seemingly rational dream. As he awakened, the dream became less rational and the situation before him became more so, eventually bordering on painful and sad.

He hadn't considered how Lithuania would feel, exposed as he was when he had removed the man's shirt. At the time he had been quite drunk and considered it an act of kindness, but now it seemed as though he had displayed something private and painful out in the open as the brunette desperately fought to hide it away. He closed his blurry eye and relaxed back in to the couch, ignoring the other man's frustration as he quickly buttoned his shirt. He pretended not to hear the nervous breathing of the other man and waiting until the man was comfortably clad to shift again.

Brown hair whipped around in shock, his shoulders only relaxing slightly when he found the other man asleep. He brushed invisible dirt off of his shirt in an effort to regain his dignity and walked over to the couch. He cleared his throat quietly in hopes of awakening the larger man from his slumber.

"Uhmm… America? Are you awake?" The other man continued to ignore his calling so he turned away and concentrated completely on making coffee. America listened to the sounds of the other man, his breath finally stable, even peaceful as he engaged in the mundane chore. The coffeemaker burbled contentedly at the attention and spat out a wonderful smell accompanied by a hideous sludge it liked to believe was coffee. The maker was cheap, but even it deserved better than the manure with which it was forced to work.

America, however, sniffed happily. The smell of coffee was practically as much of a staple in his country as cheese was to France and pasta to Italy. A day just wasn't a day if it didn't begin with a potent brew. Feeling that it was an appropriate time to get up and tempted by the smell (more the latter than the former), America sat up on the couch, groaning and rubbing his head in a great act of being horribly hung over. He looked up at the smaller man's face and grinned deeply when he noticed heavy crease lines etched into his cheek from the pillow. The man's life may not be perfect, but America was proud to say that he had at least given the man a damn good night of sleep… (or maybe that was the booze…) Regardless, America stood and snuck up behind the smaller man, looming over him for quite some time before the other sighed without turning around.

"America, I lived with Russia for years. I could sense a lumbering man like yourself from a mile away." America laughed despite the darker message hidden in his response.

"Ahaha! I never was much of a stealth agent. I've got some damn good ones, but me? I'll always be a man for shotguns." Lithuania looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

"That's a… charming sentiment." They stood silently for a moment before Lithuania grabbed the handle of the pot and poured the steaming mess in to one of the complimentary mugs. He placed the cups in America's grabby hands and then moved on to pour his own. The blonde drank with a quiet peace, enjoying the warmth washing through his mouth, while Lithuania took a sip and coughed slightly.

"Isn't hotel coffee supposed to be pretty decent?" At this America looked at him incredulously before laughing.

"We're in England, man. I'm just happy that there is coffee. I swear… I wouldn't put it past Iggy to ban coffee in his country… though I doubt he's ever giving _me_ tea again…" Lithuania laughed awkwardly at this, unsure of the tension remaining from the conflict. He wasn't too involved in the young nation's politics at the time, but he'd have to live under a rock to not notice the tensions between England and America from time to time. As the awkward silence became increasingly awkward and silent he decided that it was time for him to go. He poured the coffee out in the sink and threw the cup away while America stared at the wall, reminiscing.

"I should really be going. I've got paperwork that I should be starting on…" America looked at him for a moment before his expression became bright. He wandered off to his bedside and grabbed a couple of Aspirin and poured them generously into the other man's hand.

"Enjoy them. Considering how much you drank last night and how much you usually drink, you're going to need them. Especially in the streets of London… those fussy Brits…" Lithuania smiled appreciatively and swallowed two dry before heading toward the door. He stood in front of it for a moment before turning back to look at America.

"You didn't uhm…" he tried, looking down and rubbing his arms uncomfortably. America relaxed himself allowing his face to remain neutral and slightly curious. "Uhh… never mind."

"Alright, then." Lithuania turned back and walked out the door. America caught it before it closed and leaned out with a smile.

"You know I'm always here for you, right? I may not make many friends, but the ones I do are damn precious to me." Lithuania's face heated and he refused to look the other in the eye.

"Y-Yeah. Thanks, America."

"No prob."

* * *

**It was like four in the morning when I wrote my first comment. Could anyone tell?**


	24. Chapter 24

The phone rang once, then again, and again, until the line was connected.

"Hello?"

"Hey Poland. I was kinda hoping I could talk to you."

"Yeah? Who is this?"

"It's America." Poland laughed on the other side.

"Alfie? What are you calling me for?"

"Well, I've been spending some time with an old friend, and I think he needs some help. _Your help_."

"What are you talking… Is this about Liet?"

"Yeah, it's about Lithuania."

"Is he okay? He's not like, in the hospital or anything, right?"

"No, no. He's not. But I'm really worried about him."

"Did Russia do something to him?" Poland's usually soft, playful voice became sharp and dangerous.

"No… man, I wish it was that simple…" America rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably and flopped down on to the couch. This wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. "He's come over to my place a couple times since we've all been in London," Poland grumbles angrily under his breath and America chuckles awkwardly. "It's not like that. Anyway, he's been over here and the first time he needed a place to stay, which was fine..."

"What? Why didn't he have his own room?"

"I think he might have. From what I can tell something happened between Russia and him." America coughed uncomfortably.

"And he didn't stay with those other guys?"

"You mean the little guys that hang around Russia?"

"Yeah, them."

"Jeez, I don't know why. That's not the point. The point is I think he's been hurting himself." Poland breathed deeply.

"How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad."

"Anything still scabbing?"

"Not at the moment, but there were some pretty fresh ones. They were deep too." Poland shuddered before replying with a shaky voice.

"And what do I do?" He whispered, asking himself more than the man on the other end. He remembered the scarring… the long straight lines across the small man's forearms. He remembered wishing and praying there was something that he could do to lower the wall between himself and Lithuania... some way that he could get in and fix whatever was hurting inside of him. It had been years since they had spoken comfortably with one another and every day had been torture. Poland had never been a man to dwell or obsess… He simply didn't care about most things and didn't bother focusing on them. Politics, war… he'd seen enough and didn't care to bother with them anymore. But Lithuania… Lietuva… What could he do to help him?

America stayed silent allowing the man some time to think. It wasn't an easy situation and neither really knew how to progress.

"Poland?"

"Yeah?"

"I uhm… I overheard him call your name in his sleep. That's why I thought…"

"…Yeah. I got it."

"You've got it?"

"Mmm. I'll call him up this afternoon." There was a comradery shared across the line as the men thought about the many ways the situation could play out.

"Good luck, Poland. Help him."

"I will."

As Lithuania walked from America's apartment to his own he thought about what the blonde had told him and especially what the man hadn't told him. America said that he cared about Lithuania and seemed genuinely concerned, but despite the fact that he had obviously seen the scars on his wrists, the blonde didn't treat him any differently. Lithuania had always expected America to treat him as just another damsel in distress if he were to get involved, but now, America was definitely involved, but Lithuania was still a person to him and a valuable friend. He felt as though his thoughts and opinions were valued by someone in a way that they hadn't been for a long time. Something had to change.

Lithuania had thought for years about the path he was heading down and where it might take him. He had been a great nation once. But now… now what was he? He wasn't the strongest, the largest, or the greatest producer. He wasn't proud of who he was anymore. He respected his people and their strength and tenacity, but he just couldn't accept how broken and dirty he felt after living with the USSR. His nation still bore the shadows of the power of Russia and he- well, he'd never again be good enough. He'd never be able to go back to being the nation he was before… but he could however, decide the nation he would become. As the hotel door closed behind him, he was decided. With his back straight and his head held high for the first time in a long time, he picked up the phone.


	25. Chapter 25

Lithuania was sitting at a small, wooden desk leaning over his paperwork when he heard a knock on the door. He started at the noise and looked cautiously into the peephole. Outside, he saw a small man with long blonde hair staring off to his left and picking at his pink coated fingernails. The brunette's heart raced and he felt his body cover with a cold, wet sheen. _Poland…_

He panicked for a moment, torn between letting the man inside and pretending that he wasn't in his room at the moment. How the man had even managed to find him was a mystery in itself which he didn't have time to deal with. He paced back and forth in front of the door before he heard the other man sigh.

"You're obviously there, Liet," he mumbled, tapping his food on the ground impatiently. _Shit! _Lithuania grabbed the handle in shaking hands and turned it.

"Hey… Poland! What are you doing here?" He asked, a false smile seeming more of a frightened grimace alighting his face.

"Can I come in?" Lithuania took this opportunity to really look at the other man. He was as lovely as ever in his physical appearance, androgynous in not only his figure but his countenance as well. The truly startling thing about the man, ironically enough, was his clothing. Instead of his usual flamboyant dress, Poland stood before Lithuania in plain (albeit designer) jeans and a muted purple T-shirt. His feet were covered with delicate sandals, but he wore no jewelry, no accessories, and nothing beyond a couple splashes of chipped pink nail polish to give a hint of the character he truly was. Lithuania gaped at the changes. Poland laughed, uncomfortable with attention for the first time in a long while.

"I know I'm not looking terribly fabulous, but you could still like, let me inside."

"Oh! Yeah, come on in. Sorry." Lithuania muttered to himself as he scurried around his room tidying up here and starting a pot of tea there. Poland stood over his paper laden desk, frowning as he thought to himself about the man's excessive work ethic.

"Sugar?" Poland looked up.

"Oh, sure. Thanks." He received the tea from Lithuania and sat on the couch, waiting until he sat as well. They sipped their tea in silence for a moment before Poland pulled his knee up on the couch and turned to look at Lithuania.

"Liet…" He started, looking away nervously when he saw Lithuania blush. "Liet, I'm seriously worried." At this Lithuania became visibly disturbed, shifting and fidgeting to avoid meeting Poland's gaze.

"A-About what?"

"About _you_." Lithuania laughed in feigned nonchalance.

"Why would y-you be worried about me?" Poland placed his cup on the coffee table before him and looked at Lithuania seriously.

"It's been like, a couple decades since you and Russia broke up and you're still totally seeing him!"

"What! I am not. We see each other at meetings, but—"

"Don't lie to me," he muttered looking away. "America told me." The words echoed pointlessly against Lithuania's eardrums. He felt as though he was hot and cold, floating and falling at the same time. His face twisted with pain and betrayal.

"H-He…"

"No, Liet. Don't be mad at him. He's just worried. We… We both are." Lithuania looks away, tears threatening his eyes as he felt his insides twist. He and America were friends… and he understood! He wasn't treating him like everyone else did…

"Look, it'd be different if you were… just sleeping with him," Poland started, his pain and discomfort apparent as he relayed his thoughts. "A-And I know that some totally awful shit happened when you guys lived together, but it's over now. You can't live like, your entire life suffering because of it! Please… Please let me help." Poland's hand shook as he tentatively grasped Lithuania's.

"P-Poland…" He stared down in to his lap struggling for words. "I just—I didn't mean…"

"It's not like you have to talk to me if you don't want to Liet. I mean, you and I… just someone."

"I don't even know why I keep doing it to myself…" Lithuania started, muttering quietly. "I keep coming back to him and making him hurt me… maybe to make him hurt himself… and I keep hurting myself."

"Why'd you start hurting yourself, Liet?"

"I'm not sure when it started." Lithuania's stomach twisted with nerves. "It started sometime in the USSR. One day he was drunk… we were all so poor and so desperate…. We were falling apart and he was so hurt and so angry… he just _snapped._"

"And?" Poland prompted gently.

"And he started hitting us. Anything he could reach, really. I couldn't stand to see him hit Latvia… Estonia either. So I did the only thing I could think of. It was subconscious at first but I think I…"

"You made yourself a target?" Lithuania's voice caught in his throat and he hiccupped.

"I…I guess I did." He looked away, ashamed of what he would say next. "Poland… I missed you so much."

"Y-You've missed me? But, I thought that you—"

"I didn't want anyone else to get hurt. And then… after everything he'd done to me and everything I'd goaded him into doing to me instead of them… I'm not good enough for you. Not anymore."

"W-What! What are you saying?"

"I'm so scared now. I'm so messed up and broken and stupid. God, I keep doing this—" Poland grabbed Lithuania's hand urgently.

"Liet, I have loved you since we were children. I totally miss you every day and wish to God that you would have said yes when I asked you to be with me."

"B-But… you don't care about?"

"No!"

"But what if I-?"

"No. Shut up, Liet." Poland's hands grasped Lithuania's shoulders and pulled him close. Their lips collided passionately, making up for lost time. Lithuania pulled back for a moment, his lips brushing against Poland's as he whispered.

"I love you, Feliks."

"I love you too, Liet."


	26. Chapter 26

Feeling more at peace than he had in long time, America picked up the phone and dialed Russia. He tapped his finger against the nightstand and hummed contentedly to himself as the phone rang loudly in his ear.

"Pryvet?" The voice was soft, almost childish despite the deepness of it, and the innocent tone was belayed only slightly by the gentle grovel from years of smoking.

"Hey, Russia," America greeted amicably, his voice filled with triumph. Russia perked up immediately and the American could almost hear him smile through the line.

"Yes, Amerika?"

"So… I've been hanging out with Toris a lot right?"

"More than I would care for, yes. And?"

"He's finally getting back together with Poland!"

"Oh?" Russia's voice raised slightly in an almost unperceivable optimism. "And how did this come about?"

"Well, obviously I'm the hero, right? So I was talking to Toris the other night over beers—"

"Wait. Is this why you've been staying in England?" America cleared his throat at the almost accusatory tone.

"Well… yeah. Mostly…" He mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Anyways, so I was drinking with Toris and—"

"Wait. So you called me first to tell me about all of this? Not your brother or England?"

"I—well, shut up and let me finish..." He grumbled in frustration. "Ugh! Never mind, you get the point. Anyway, Lithuania wanted me to tell you something about 'getting the girl' or something. I was too caught up in my awesomeness to pay attention."

"Getting the girl…" Russia repeated quietly to himself.

"Yeah, something like that. And that's why I called you."

"Is there anything you expect me to do about this?" He asked with genuine curiosity.

"What? Well… Now that you mention it… It's only appropriate that you take me out for drinks to celebrate!"

"Take you out for drinks… Celebrate that other people started dating?"

"Yeah! Totally." America agreed, sounding a little ridiculous to even himself.

"So you want me to take you out… You're out of money, aren't you?"

"Whaaat?" America drawled in false offense. "No way! I would never—yeah… I'm totally broke."

"How did you run out so fast?"

"Well, I was really hungry this morning, and I needed clothes… and I brought a new xbox…" America relayed counting the expenses on his fingers with a slight smirk.

"You bought a game system!" At this America became deadly serious.

"Russia, I would sooner die than miss out on another week of gaming. Do you know how many map packs I have yet to download?"

"What?"

"Too many. Far, far too many."

"And you want me to buy you alcohol? Are you sure you aren't just saying all of this so you can see me again?"

"Positive. Now get some booze."

"At a bar, or should I just pick some up?"

"I don't really care, just—"

"Great, I'll be over soon." Russia chimed happily before hanging up the phone.

"—not at my place." America sighed, placing the phone back in the receiver.

It took a grand total of thirty minutes for Russia to arrive at the door with three twenty-four packs of local beer stacked on top of each other with a paper bag on top. The tower wobbled precariously as he knocked. America looked out the peephole, more from habit than anything else, and laughed loudly before opening the door.

"Do not laugh, Comrade. Can you grab the bag on top?"

America reached up and snagged the edge of the bag, cradling it gently in his arms as he brought it down from the top of the ridiculous stack. Ever curious, he peeked inside and scrunched up his nose seeing only cheap vodka.

"Do not make that face. I brought you your beer," Russia replied, thoroughly amused with himself. America stepped toward him, grabbing the box on top after placing the bag on the coffee table.

"You brought me… European beer? They're right, you know, you are a monster." Russia laughed playfully.

"Like I would suffer through even the smell of the piss you drink!"

"Piss! That's some all-American piss to you, buddy!" Russia snorted, lowering the last two large boxes on to the bed. He walked back to the coffee table and snagged a clear bottle out of the bag before breaking the seal and drinking heavily. America's eyes followed the movement, dipping downward when the Russian turned around. Russia glanced over his shoulder with a smug expression raiding and eyebrow as America averted his eyes to the wall. His face was flushed and he felt absolutely horrified. "Our beer may be piss, but at least we aren't drinking that lighter fluid." He muttered lamely, feeling irrationally angry with the Russian.

"Lighter fluid? I feel like there's a 'hot' joke here, but I just can't seem to find it." America coughed awkwardly, ignoring the jibe as best he could and ripping the side off of the box of beer. He grabbed the closest beer and popped it open, chugging it to eradicate the sudden dryness of his mouth.

"Thirsty?"

"Something about being within twenty feet of you makes me wish I was drunk."

"Something about being within twenty feet of _you _makes me feel drunk."

"Do you ever stop?"

"Should I?" America grumbled with annoyance, plopping on to the couch. Russia ignored the American's annoyance and sat down beside him on the couch.

"You burned through quite a bit of money just to get me back here. What are you going to do if I refuse to lend you any more? Will you suck up your pride and have some wired to you?"

"I'm not going to need any more money, Russia."

"Oh? You plan to live on beer?"

"No. I'm going home." America's voice was saturated with homesickness and longing. "It's been long enough. I can't put this off any longer."

"You don't want to go home?"

"No, I do. I really do. But then I'll have to stop pretending everything's the way it was…" America searched Russia's face for a response.

"Do you mean…"

"Something like that. Things are different between us now. …all of us, sure, but you and me too. Maybe especially you and me… That doesn't mean that anything's changed between the nations, however. 'America' and 'Russia' still have history."

"Just wait until your country starts trying to investigate where you were… I'm sure that'll go over well."

"They're not going to. I'm not going to let them make an international crisis out of this."

"No?" Russia asked, almost whispering as he placed a gloved hand on the American's cheek. "Then we don't need to make an international crisis out of this either," he breathed onto America's lips, watching America's eyes close before he kissed him.


	27. Chapter 27

America responded reluctantly to the kiss, despite the fluttering he felt in his chest. Doing this would change everything… It would mean that America no longer hated Russia for the Cold War or for his internment; he wouldn't be able to think about the man as just a monster, and it would also be the ultimate deviation from the relationship he always thought he could have with England. England had France and now, even for just a moment, he would have Russia. He felt his 'good vs. evil' world shudder uncomfortably with the entire situation as his fingers weaved themselves into the larger man's hair.

A tongue pressed lightly against his lips and he felt himself shudder with excitement. The wet muscle slid past his lips and in to his mouth, pressing against America's own tongue. Russia leaned forward and grabbed the young nation around the waist, pressing his lips firmly against the others. America subconsciously leaned in to the attention, his mind focused on the pleasure and the emotions running through his head for which he couldn't find words. His tongue curled against the intruder and with that small sign of acceptance, Russia pushed forward. He grabbed the beer from America's hand, feeling around for a second before placing it on the table. Before the blonde could contemplate the loss, Russia was pushing him down on the couch and nudging his legs apart. America's legs spread reluctantly as his body suddenly felt heavier than it had in days. He relaxed in to the couch, leaning into the Russia's kisses against his neck.

"Ngh, Russia…" America grunted, his breathing heavy.

"Ivan." Russia mumbled as he concentrated on the shirt buttons beneath him. "Call me Ivan." America's hips rolled forward at the sound of Russia's voice on top of him. The Russian grunted quietly at the fiction, continuing to focus as best as he could on the final buttons of the American's dress shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned and America shrugged his shoulders to free himself of the offending article. Underneath the dress shirt he wore a thin white undershirt which left little of the blonde's chest to the imagination. Small tips pressed up against the fabric, clearly displaying the man's erect nipples.

"Cuutee…" Russia breathed against the American's neck, twisting the nubs.

"I—I will maim you," the American replied airily in utterly unconvincing tones. Russia chuckled, ignoring the smaller man's threats. Frustrated, America bit harshly on the large, pale neck before him, drawing a surprised moan from the other man.

"Cuutee," he mimicked sarcastically. With newfound aggression, Russia pressed his weight menacingly against the man beneath him.

"Is that how you want it, Amerika? Rough?" America rolled his eyes.

"I'm sleeping with you, aren't I?" The Russian's face separated with a toothy grin as one hand snaked its way up the American's shirt.

"Tell me if it gets to be too much for you."

"Cram it you fuckin—" A large hand grasped the throat firmly, cutting off the American mid-word. America just stared back with annoyance. _Mid-sentence… how rude. _He thought to himself as his throat croaked and coughed wetly. At the sound of the American's involuntary bark, Russia lifted himself and the American up by his throat and carried him to the bed. He threw the man outward, sputtering as he bounced against the hotel bed. The blonde breathed heavily as the Russian crawled back over him.

"God, Amerika… I don't know that I could break you if I tried... I won't hold back." The blonde snorted.

"Like I would need you to." Russia leaned in a licked the American's neck down toward his chest, ripping the shirt whenever it got in his way.

"How can you be so irritating and hot at the same time?" America growled in frustration, throwing the Russians coat and shirt off. Feeling his groin twitch excited at the American's excitement, Russia set to work unzipping the blonde's pants and sliding both his boxers and pants past his waist. America wriggled them off from underneath the Russian and exhaled heavily when a calloused hand wrapped around his semi-erect penis. Russia's fingers rolled up and down the member as it grew to length.

"Hmmnn," America sighed contentedly, leaning back and enjoying himself. The Russian smiled to himself before leaning over the American and whispering in his ear.

"I've wanted to do this for so long, Amerika… Alfred. My Alfred." He punctuated his last remark by pressing his clothed erection against America's. America's legs wrapped around the Russian, pressing him closer still.

"Mmmm… Just shut up and fuck me." Russia leaned down and bit the younger nation's nipple harshly.

"If you insist."

This is where you ask me if we fought against all odds and somehow ended up happily together forever after… And to be honest, we didn't. You see, forever's a long time. We awoke next to each other the next morning. His large arm laid possessively across my stomach, warm and protecting. I tried lifting the arm as carefully as I could to get away, but that's not how it worked. Violet eyes fluttered open and he smiled lazily, his eyes soft with sadness.

"Russia…" I started, trailing off lamely.

"Amerika."

"You know I'm not about to say that I love you."

"I know."

"And you know I'm not going to promise that we'll be together forever or anything stupid like that…"

"Yeah, I know."

"Hell, I can't even promise I won't regret this as soon as I climb out of bed."

"I know, Amerika."

"Then what…?" Russia pulled me closer and nestled his face into my neck.

"For now, this is enough." I stared uncomfortably at the ceiling, unsure of whether to pull the man closer or push him away.

"You're kinda a sap, y'know."

"I know."

**AAAAAAnnnddd That's that. Tell me what you think. I am really open for suggestions right now. I know that I skipped over the sex scenes, but I didn't think that they added a lot to plot. (I can hear yaoi fangirls screaming in offended rage.) TELL ME WHAT YOU THINKSDFKJHDSFJLHASDOIU /desperation**


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